The Unweaving
by Miskcat
Summary: Alphonse Elric has finally regained his body, but now both he and Roy Mustang have to deal with life without Ed, as Mustang gradually uncovers a horrifying truth.
1. Chapter 1 Reclaiming Life

My very first AU fic, though it's not too AU

_My very first AU fic, though it's not too AU. It could fit around the end of either the anime (although Roy has both his eyes) or the manga, but not the movie (in other words, Ed and Al never ended up in our world). The story would presuppose that the great political and alchemical problems, in either the manga or anime, have been resolved, so the principal characters would be living fairly normal lives by this point. But Al was still in the armour, until the moment that triggered this story._

_So enjoy!_

**xXxXxXx**

Chapter 1 – _Reclaiming Life_

"Here you go, Alphonse," Roy said, pushing open the door. "This will be your room. And as I said before, feel free to stay as long as you want. In fact…," he hesitated, searching the young man's face, "I hope you'll consider this your home in Central. You can live here permanently, as far as I'm concerned."

Al stood beside him in the doorway, surveying the large bedroom with its double bed, dresser and armoire of polished cherry wood, desk, bookcase, and spacious closet. He looked around for a long time in silence, making no response at all, but at last he turned his large, grey – unbearably sad – eyes upon his host.

"Thank you, general," he murmured. "I haven't had a chance to think that far ahead. But I'm really grateful that you're helping me like this."

'_If anything happens to me, will you take care of him? You have to mean it. You have to promise.'_

"You can count on it, Al," Roy told his new housemate. "Any time you need me, for any reason, all you need to do is ask."

"Thank you," Al repeated. He bent to retrieve the two suitcases he'd set down on either side of him, but Roy had already picked one up. Al preceded the man into the room and, dropping his case beside the bed, sat on the edge of it. The mattress was very high – in fact, it might have been too high for him to sit on easily, if he were as short as his brother had been. His extra height had been one of the things that had surprised Roy , now that the boy had his human body back. The colour of his eyes had been another one.

Al ran a hand back and forth over the thick, tweedy, dark red surface of the comforter piled on top of the bed, and he smiled a little. "I think this is going to be very comfortable," he said. His voice, at least, was not a surprise, though it was still a novelty, hearing the warm, human timbre infusing his words instead of the old metallic echo.

Roy went to the window, just to the right of the bed, and set the other suitcase beneath it before drawing open the plain brown curtains with a soft swish of fabric. The afternoon sunlight streamed in, a wide strip of brilliance across the ornate carpet he'd bought while in East City , with its repeating red and green pattern of flowers and birds. "The bed should be comfortable," he smiled in return. "It's brand new. I got the best one I could find. I thought you deserved it after all those years sleeping in strange beds or under…the…stars…"

Wrong thing to say, and he realized it immediately. As he turned back toward the bed he saw the spasm of anguish pass across Al's features before the boy could stifle it. Al averted his drawn face, closing his eyes, his throat working soundlessly.

"I'm sorry," Roy murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. He knew how his young friend needed the sensation of touch, as he continued to settle into his newly restored body. "I'm sorry I reminded you."

"It's okay, general," Al whispered, voice shaking. "It's not like we're never going to talk about him. Actually…I couldn't stand that."

"I know. Neither could I." Roy moved around and sat heavily on the bed beside the young man. "I think we have to get used to the idea that it's going to hurt when we think of him, but we should never try to keep ourselves from talking about him. That would be worse. It would hurt us – and it would dishonour him."

Al nodded, sniffling. He pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and wiped his eyes. As he folded it up again, he said, "Can I ask you a question, General Mustang?"

"Of course. And please, Al…why don't you start calling me Roy? I was Ed's boss, not yours, and we've been through enough by now that I think – I hope – we're good friends at this point, and don't need to be formal."

'_You're the only one I know I can trust. I know I've never really admitted it before, but I'd trust you with anything. Even my life. And most of all my brother's life.'_

"Okay. Roy . Maybe that's the answer to my question, then."

"Which was…?"

"Why you're doing this. I mean, I'm grateful and everything, but I never expected this sort of help from you." Al lifted wide, earnest eyes to the older man's face, searching it uncertainly.

"Well…like I said, we've been through a lot together, and I kind of started thinking of you boys as…," Roy shrugged awkwardly, "…as family, I guess. It's been a long time since I… Anyway, I enjoyed starting to feel as though I could be like family to some of the people I cared about. Then I lost Maes…and now Ed…"

Dammit, now his voice was shaking too, and there were even tears, and he was supposed to be strong, be a shoulder for Al to cry on, not start blubbering himself! Roy blinked rapidly, jaw set, staring at the fists clenched in his lap, determined not to let the tears really get started. But he didn't dare speak again, not yet. The first crack in his voice and he'd lose control, and that wouldn't help Al at all.

A hand crept into his field of vision, taking one of his fists, opening the fingers, and placing the handkerchief there. He clutched it tightly, knowing it was hopeless, and the tears burst through the dam and began flowing of their own accord, in streams down his cheeks. He glanced at Al's face and saw that the boy was crying too now, the grief screaming from his desolate eyes.

Roy put his arms around his companion and pulled the slender form close – telling himself that it was only because the boy needed the physical contact after all this time – and they wept together. "I'm so sorry, Al," he whispered. "So very sorry."

"Why did this have to happen?" Alphonse mourned, his shoulders shaking. "Why now, after everything we'd been through? Why did Ed have to go and die?"

'_Why are you asking this now, Edward?'_

'_Oh, no actual reason. I realized I should have asked you a long time ago, just in case. Only a formality, really.'_

**xXxXxXx**

Roy deftly chopped the chicken breast into chunks on the cutting board, while Al stirred the heavy kettle of soup with a wooden spoon. The boy leaned over the pot and breathed slowly and deeply, eyes closed. Then he did it again, as he absorbed the rich aromas: the mellowed sweetness of caramelized onions and carrots, the sharp bite of celery and tang of parsley, the smooth chicken-scented body of the broth.

So many years without smelling anything! And now, after the sudden transformation two weeks ago that had restored his body, whole and functional and even appropriately aged, Al tended to walk around sniffing everything, like a little dog. In addition, of course, to running his hands over the surfaces of most of the things he passed.

It tended to take a long time, these days, to walk a block with the kid.

Though as he looked past the boy now, toward the sink, at the darkened window above it that overlooked the back yard, Roy admitted he'd been inspired to notice things in the last few days that he hadn't paid attention to for a long time. Watching Al rub the petals of a rose between fingers and thumb this afternoon when Roy had shown him the garden, and seeing the bliss on the boy's face as he encompassed the soft texture and the fragrance simultaneously, had made the man stand and look around the garden as though he'd never seen it before.

A large, rectangular herb and vegetable patch just behind the house gave way to a lush lawn, bordered with raised beds of flowers. He'd always had someone else do the planting and landscaping, but…maybe he'd start putting his own hand in occasionally. He could only imagine how Al would react to the green, earthy smell of newly-dug dirt. Chuckling to himself, he'd speculated that he might never get the kid inside again.

Now Roy gathered the chunks of chicken into his hands and, with a tilt of his head, motioned for his young helper to make room. He lifted the pile over to the pot, and lowered his hands to drop the chicken in. "You're going to love the smell when this heats up," he smiled.

He just hoped the chunks weren't too solid for Al's stomach to handle yet. The boy had hardly eaten at all, the first couple of days he'd had his body back, but that was understandable considering the circumstances. When things had calmed down a little, though, he'd tried to eat a normal, solid meal after everyone insisted he needed to get some nourishment. Then he'd been horribly sick with stomach cramps for hours afterward. It was Pinako Rockbell, newly arrived with Winry for the State funeral, who had reminded everyone that Al's body had essentially been fasting for a very long time, and would have to work slowly and gradually back up to solid food.

Since then, everything he'd eaten had been strained or pureed or mushed, and the most solid thing he'd eaten, late in the second week, had been necessarily (but criminally, to Roy 's taste) overcooked pasta. The food had helped the boy's gaunt body begin to flesh out, but still Roy had observed Al's frustration steadily growing at the mushy diet. So now that Al had moved out of the hotel where he'd been staying with the Rockbells, and had escaped Pinako's eagle eye, his new host decided to see if he could introduce something more solid.

Once they had composed themselves after their mutual breakdown earlier this afternoon in the bedroom, he had asked, "What do you say we try some chicken chunks in a broth for supper, and see how well your stomach handles it?" The shining gratitude in Al's eyes had been his reward.

Now Roy added, "We'll still heat the chicken longer than normal, to make sure the chunks are as tender as possible. And I chopped them smaller than I usually do." He grabbed a spoon, dipped it in and took a sip, then grabbed a pinch of salt from a small bowl on the counter and tossed it into the broth.

"It doesn't matter," Al responded fervently. "Even those soft cubes of carrot have got me excited."

Roy laughed, and went to set the table while Al continued stirring. And breathing.

Just as the soup was done, and Roy had brought the pot to the table to begin ladling their supper into a pair of wide, plain white soup bowls, a knock at the door heralded an unexpected visitor. He heard the door open, and leaned back far enough to see Lieutenant Hawkeye peering into the long front hallway. "Come on in, Hawkeye!" he called. "We're just about to have some soup. I'll get another bowl."

The woman walked down the hall and paused in the doorway to the kitchen. She must have gone home from the office before coming here, because she'd changed out of her uniform into plain navy slacks and a white shirt, and had released her hair to hang down her back, confined loosely with a clip. She surveyed the little domestic scene, the boy sitting at the polished wooden table and the man standing with soup pot in one hand and a ladle in the other, and she smiled.

"I'm not planning to stay, sir. I just wanted to see how Alphonse was settling in. How are you doing, Al?"

He smiled back at her. "I'm doing fine, lieutenant. General Mus – I mean Roy – he's got a very nice house, and a beautiful garden. I'm sure I'm going to like it here."

"Good. I thought you'd probably enjoy the garden. It's the envy of everyone in the neighbourhood. And you know something, general…" Hawkeye paused significantly.

"Yes?" Roy regarded her suspiciously, knowing the deviousness behind that overly wide-eyed expression on her face.

"It seems to me that this house very much feels the lack of a kitten or two."

Yep. Devious. But as Roy looked down at Al, to see the boy's eyes brighten despite all efforts to appear impassive, he smiled as he continued portioning out the soup. "I believe you're right, lieutenant," he nodded. "What do you say, Al? After we get back from Risembool, should we get a couple of kittens?"

"Are you sure?" the boy asked carefully, watching the older man's face, the merest hint of wariness in his eyes.

He'd been like that for two weeks, Roy realized with a pang. Pleasant and cooperative, accepting everyone's sympathy but never quite asserting his own desires, never quite committing himself in case it led to yet another loss. It was going to take a long, long time for him to heal.

'_He's always been the strong one, you know. But if something ever happens, you'd pretty much need to become his big brother. Because that's when he'd need a brother, more than ever.'_

"I'm very sure," Roy answered. "I think you'd enjoy having a couple of kittens for company. This house has been too empty for too long. I hope you'll help me finally bring some life into it." Al made no answer, lowering his eyes to the steaming soup, and breathing in the aromas as they drifted up from the bowl.

"Well," Hawkeye said, "I just wanted to say hello, and see how you were doing. I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow, Alphonse, or else at the train station the next day. Have a good evening."

"See you later, lieutenant," he replied softly, still breathing, eyes closed.

Leaving Al to start in on his soup, Roy accompanied Hawkeye to the door, following her outside and shutting it behind him. He leaned back against it, eyes wandering over the small front yard with its border of low hedging. There was still some light in the western sky, though the sun had now sunk below the horizon. To the east, however, the first twinkling stars had begun to appear. "The kid's still pretty subdued," he commented quietly. "We both had a bad moment just after he arrived, but we seemed to get through it."

"I just hope he can get through the next few days too," the woman sighed.

Roy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sweet, growing smell permeated the cool evening air, and he wondered if he should bring Al outside to sample it. Not tonight, he decided. Maybe tomorrow. Though he'd have other things on his mind by this time tomorrow.

"Tomorrow's going to be toughest of all," Roy said, "going through the boys' dormitory room and cleaning out all of Ed's belongings. I'm glad Winry and Pinako will be there. If he breaks down, I doubt I can help him, but they're like his family, so that should make some difference."

Family. Every part of this tragedy seemed to revolve around that. And he – _he_ – was somehow supposed to take the place of Alphonse's big brother? How would he ever do this?

A touch on his arm brought his attention back to his companion. He could see the warm compassion in Hawkeye's gaze even in the dim light. " Roy , you're doing fine. One day at a time, isn't that what they say? That's how Al's getting through this, after all. And don't think you can't show your own grief either. I think he'll be more comforted knowing you're grieving, than he would if you never showed anything."

Roy nodded, remembering the shared sorrow earlier in the afternoon, and how both he and Al had seemed briefly cleansed by it, even lightened somehow. "I suppose you're right," he answered. "We'll get through tomorrow – and then the week in Risembool when we take Ed's body back – and maybe once we get back to Central, we can finally start sorting things out and find a way to go on from here." He cast a sidelong smile at Hawkeye. "I'm sure the kittens will help."

"Yes," she agreed, with more than a trace of smugness, "I'm sure they will."

He almost expected Al to be finished the soup by the time he returned to the kitchen, but the boy seemed to have learned a lesson from the last time he'd tried solid food. He wasn't even halfway through his bowl, and sat chewing something with intense concentration when Roy slipped into his own chair.

"Got some chicken there, do you?" the man asked.

Al nodded. "It's pretty soft, but I'm making sure everything is chewed really well. And it's such an interesting thing."

"What is?"

"Chewing. I never paid attention to it before. But you have all those tastes and different textures at once…" He fell silent again as he lifted another spoonful to his mouth, and slowly sipped a mouthful of the broth.

Roy noted how the boy's hand trembled very slightly as he raised the spoon. Al could manage all the basic movements, but his muscles were understandably weak and uncoordinated. It took a lot of effort to control them when more precise actions were required, and the strain always began to show toward the end of the day as he grew tired. Still, he was better than he'd been two weeks ago, when he'd barely been able to hold a spoon, let alone guide it to his mouth. His body was remembering its old skills very quickly.

They ate in companionable silence, talking only occasionally. Al decided not to have a second bowl, even though there was plenty of soup left in the pot. "I want to make sure it's going to digest without any problems," he explained. "It feels good so far, but I don't want to push it yet."

"If that sits all right through the night," Roy suggested, "maybe I can make you some oatmeal for breakfast, and add some softened apple chunks."

Al once again lowered his eyes to his empty bowl. "I'm not sure I'll be able to eat anything tomorrow," he murmured, brows drawing together.

Roy put a hand on his forearm. "You'll get through it. We'll all be there to help."

Shortly afterward, although Al gamely tried to participate in the kitchen cleanup, it was clear that he'd finally consumed almost all his reserves of energy. As he tried to gather up the utensils from the table, he fumbled them with unsteady hands, and they clattered all over the floor. Roy whirled around from his place at the sink, in time to see the boy drop back into his chair and cover a suddenly white face.

"I'm sorry – I'm so sorry!" Al cried.

In two strides, Roy was at his side, going to one knee beside the chair. He put a gentle hand on Al's hair. "Hush, Alphonse. There's nothing to apologize for. You're exhausted – I should have realized that."

"But I – but I dropped – "

"It doesn't matter. I'll get them later. Right now, we're putting you to bed."

He helped the boy to his feet and guided him to the staircase in the hall. Then, realizing that Al would never manage to climb all those stairs in his exhausted state, he stooped, picked the young man up in his arms, and carefully carried him up. It almost frightened him, how light Al was, how fragile, still. Roy wished with all his heart that the boy hadn't insisted on journeying back to Risembool so soon.

Al's head fell against his chest as they climbed. "This used to be me," he murmured, "carrying Ed when he'd been injured. He'd hate that I'm so weak now."

Roy shook his head. "He'd love that you had your body back, and were learning to use it again."

He carried Al all the way into the bedroom, laying him on the bed. He began to get the room ready for the night, pulling the curtains shut while Al managed to drag one of the suitcases onto the bed, rummaging for the new set of pajamas Winry had picked out for him. Even going as slowly as he needed to, it didn't take long before the youngster had changed, visited the bathroom (being a bit more steady on his feet after sitting for a minute), and crawled into bed.

"I was right," he smiled, his eyes already closing, "this bed is very comfortable…"

"Good. Then have a good sleep, Alphonse, and you'll feel a lot better in the morning."

Roy hovered nearby, watching as the boy sank irresistibly into slumber. Al's lashes fringed down over the dark circles under his eyes, the flush on his cheeks only serving to accentuate the pallor of his skin. They'd have to be careful about overdoing it from now on. Still, in mere moments, the boy's breathing had settled into a slow, healthy rhythm. Keep increasing the bulk of his diet and giving him as much sleep as possible, and he'd continue to grow stronger.

Roy pulled the bedroom door half-shut as he left, leaving a lamp burning on a small table in the hallway to make sure Al would still be able to see a little light if he woke up. Then the man went back down the stairs (noting that squeaky step that he'd now have to fix), and returned to the kitchen to finish up the dishes.

When he had washed the last bowl, setting it to dry with the other dishes on the rack beside the sink, he decided to go to bed early as well, since he'd found the day pretty draining himself. The next few days would likely be just as exhausting as this one – in fact, tomorrow would undoubtedly be worse – so he'd better stock up whatever emotional energy he could, in preparation.

But he didn't quite get the long, undisturbed sleep he'd hoped for. After only a couple of hours, he woke from a vaguely disturbing dream to hear the muffled sound of crying from the bedroom next door. He rolled onto his back and laid there, gazing indecisively up at his dark ceiling for several moments. A sliver of moon gradually appeared through a gap in the curtains, and he watched the thin line of white light creep across the far wall above his desk. Still the sound continued, and at last he threw back the covers, pulled on a robe and, absently tying the belt around his waist, ventured into the hallway.

When he elbowed Al's door open a little further, he could see in the lamplight slanting in from the hall that the boy was still asleep. But the light gleamed from dampness on his cheeks, and he continued to cry in his dreams, softly and steadily, head tossing back and forth, fingers clutching convulsively at the covers.

After hesitating again, fighting against his own sorrow, Roy sat on the bed and pulled the blanket partway down, then carefully drew the youngster into his arms as he leaned back into the pillows. Al settled against him with a sigh, and he laid his cheek against the boy's ruffled brown hair, closing his eyes. Within moments, Al's uneven breathing began to steady, and slowly the crying stopped.

"You're safe, Alphonse," Roy whispered, the tears rising again in his own throat. "You're safe. I've got you."

Safe. In a way that, despite all the man's efforts, Edward had not been safe, though cradled in the same way his brother now was, in Roy Mustang's arms. Participant in a massive battle against rogue alchemy that had drawn in all the greatest alchemists in Central, felled in the end by a stray bullet – a _bullet!_ – lying in the general's arms, the lifeblood draining from him as he saw his brother's armoured body, caught in the powerful alchemic forces swirling all about them, fading away and transmuting at last into human form, into Al's real, human body.

Dying. And smiling.

'_Good,' he had whispered, the last words he ever spoke. 'Good. Oh, Alphonse…'_

"Ed," Roy whispered, brushing his lips against the younger brother's hair as he wept. _"Oh, Ed."_


	2. Chapter 2 Remnants of a Life Lived

2 – Remnants of a Life Lived

Chapter 2 – _Remnants of a Life Lived_

Roy could sense Al's growing reluctance with every step they took down the dormitory hallway. The narrow, shadowed corridor tended to be rather warm and stuffy in the summer season, but despite that fact, the boy had begun to shiver as the four of them progressed nearer and nearer to the door of his and Ed's room. And when they arrived at the door itself – number C3-6 – his knees suddenly gave out beneath him, and he would have collapsed if Roy hadn't held him up with a firm arm around his waist.

"We don't have to do this, Alphonse," breathed the man, pulling Al's trembling form tightly against him. "I can have the room sealed for a little longer, or I can even have my people box everything up themselves. If we put the boxes in my basement, you can go through them later, when you're ready."

The boy clung to him for a moment, convulsive hands clutching at Roy 's uniform as he shuddered in the encircling arms. Over his head, Roy exchanged a worried glance with Winry, who watched anxiously, biting her lip. Pinako, meanwhile, observed the exchange in expressionless silence.

"No." Al shook his head, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. "I have to do this. I'm just – I'm scared, Roy ." There was the faintest hint of a break in his voice.

"I know," Roy murmured. "Everything in the room is going to look and feel different now."

Al hadn't been back even once since he and his brother had left, on the morning of the day Ed had died. First he'd been in the hospital for four days, then he'd stayed at the hotel with the Rockbell women while the State funeral had been arranged and conducted, and after that he'd fallen in with the plans for him to move in with Roy and then take Ed's body home to Risembool. He'd never had clothes to retrieve, since he hadn't owned any while in his armoured form. In fact, every piece of clothing he now owned had been purchased initially by Havoc and Hawkeye while he was in the hospital, and then more recently by Winry and Pinako. He hadn't even had a toothbrush until Havoc bought him a new one that first night.

So everything in the room on the other side of that door was Ed's, and every item was going to induce painful memories. No wonder he was scared to go in.

The boy pulled back and lifted his head, even though his hands remained tightly fisted in the uniform jacket. He raised wide eyes, full of trepidation, to the man's face. "Is that how it felt with Maes Hughes?" he asked.

Roy sucked in his breath. He should have expected that one. He faced the boy's gaze as openly as he could. "Y-yes," he faltered. "It wasn't easy, helping Gracia go through his things."

Al lowered his eyes. "Sorry to make you go through this again."

The man put a gentle hand on his hair. "Stop it," he murmured. "This is what friends do. And I'm here as much for me as I am for you. So don't take on that burden too."

Al finally let go of the jacket, straightening his thin shoulders and turning to face the door. He set his jaw with such fierce determination that Roy would have laughed if the circumstances had been different. At that moment, the kid was all Elric, drawing on some inner source of strength, pushing down his fear, and getting ready to plunge right in. He pulled the key out of his pocket, his hand now surprisingly steady as he inserted it, turned the knob, and finally pushed the door open.

And again Roy wanted, incongruously, to laugh. Even with the curtains drawn and no lamps lit, he could see that the mess was prodigious. Clothes had been strewn everywhere – tossed on the end of one of the beds, draped haphazardly over both chairs, lolling from half-closed drawers, and even kicked in a ball under the desk. Which, he noted, was itself a mess, charts and papers spread in piles all over it, some having spilled off one end to fan out halfway across the floor.

The place didn't smell, exactly, but the air sat heavily, and the room was very warm. It had clearly been shut up for several days.

Winry stomped in past the others and turned around in the middle of the room, hands on hips. "Oh, Ed!" she cried. "What a complete slob!" She dropped her knapsack on the floor beside a chair, pulled a red bandana out of the pocket of her overalls (maybe she'd been expecting exactly this sort of major cleanup job), and tied back her long blond hair to keep it out of her face.

For some reason, Al was now more embarrassed than upset. "Sorry, Winry," he muttered, cheeks flushing visibly even in the dim light. "We were in such a hurry that morning, I didn't have a chance to tidy up before we left." He glumly eyed the disastrous room. "It could be a full-time job sometimes."

"He was always just so _busy_, thinking about something else. But you let him get away with it, Al, you know you did. You should have put your foot down more often."

"I did try. But if I put my foot down too hard, I might have made a hole in the floor. Or broken Ed's foot."

The two young people looked at each other for an instant, and then burst into near-hysterical giggles, Winry bending over, hands on knees, while Alphonse leaned on the back of a chair as he shook with mirth. The spasm of hilarity left them both gasping, though it only lasted a few seconds. Finally, though, it faded away as quickly as it had arisen, and they were left staring at each other again, the same stark sadness creeping into both grey eyes and blue.

Pinako took charge. The diminutive woman stepped past Roy and into the room, going to the window between the beds and briskly yanking the curtains open. The tumbled mess was even more impressive with daylight flooding in, now that it wasn't blending into the shadows.

"Well," she said, "we're here to clean up after Ed now, so we'd better get started. Someone open this window and let some air in first. Winry, you and I will collect and fold all the clothes, so Al can decide what he wants to keep. Mustang, you and Al had better see to that desk. I imagine there are some papers there that the military may want to have."

Roy nodded. "You're right, thank you." As Al moved obediently toward the desk, the man stooped and murmured in Pinako's ear, "I'm so glad you're here." She merely responded with a curt nod before joining her granddaughter beside the bed.

Roy opened the window, and immediately a soft breeze crept in, ruffling the curtains and beginning to disperse the warm heaviness in the air. Outside, in a central square created by this dormitory and two others on either side of it, he could see the training field and running track, with several people already taking advantage before they began their day's duties. The muffled sound of the runners' footsteps rebounded off the adjacent dormitory walls, accompanied by the occasional shout of encouragement.

He left the window and took his place with Alphonse at the desk. In the better light, he could now see a plain white plate from the downstairs cafeteria, sprinkled with hard, shrivelled crumbs, sitting on a corner of one of the charts, whether intended to act as a paperweight or merely having held Ed's last hasty breakfast, he wasn't sure. But casting his eyes about the room, he spotted the toaster – illegal, of course, in the dormitory – resting beside an equally illegal hot plate and half of a very stale loaf of bread, on top of an otherwise almost empty bookcase.

The morning's tasks moved along more smoothly than he had expected, after Al's shaky start in the hallway. Despite how the lavish mess made things appear, Ed didn't have that many clothes, and it didn't take long for the women to collect them all from their various nests, and start folding them on the bed. Meanwhile, Roy and Al began to go through the piles of papers on the desk.

Some were clearly military documents, most having to do with the last big operation, in which Ed, Roy , and so many other alchemists had been involved. He recognized the blueprints of the warehouse where the rogue alchemists had kept their headquarters and laboratory, as well as maps of the adjacent streets. Ed, and probably Al too, had pretty thoroughly marked up both the blueprints and the maps, as they'd plotted avenues of attack and escape.

At least…avenues that were supposed to be escape routes. He knew that if he looked for it, he'd actually be able to locate the intersection where Ed had died, and for a moment he found his eyes automatically moving along one of the maps, following the streets and alleys toward it. But he hastily folded up the maps with the blueprints and dropped them into the garbage can. Glancing casually over his shoulder, he found Pinako watching him from the other side of Ed's bed, and wondered if she guessed what he'd been doing.

"Look at this shirt," Winry remarked, drawing her grandmother's attention away. "He was splitting a couple of seams."

"He was still growing," the woman replied. "I wonder if he realized it?"

"Oh, he realized it all right," Al smiled over his shoulder. "One little millimetre, and he'd know it."

Roy created a place for the small stack of military documents on the end of Al's bed. But the pile didn't get augmented much after the two of them sorted through the top layer of papers, because the majority of the papers – scattered notes, hand-written passages taken from research articles, lists of various sorts, rough drawings of alchemic arrays – all involved Ed's own alchemy studies. And as Roy spread out and examined three of the circle drawings, each very different, each one taking a new and unique perspective, he realized that almost all of this research had to do with one preoccupation, indeed, one powerful obsession.

"He never gave up trying to figure out how to get my body back," Al whispered at his side. The boy gently touched the drawings, running his fingertips along the lines of the circles as though caressing them. "He kept running into a block that he couldn't understand. He was always sure there was a way, so he found all these different approaches and kept coming so close – but every time, there was that block again."

In fact, Roy could see it, in every circle: an unusual symbol or oddly placed line that would divert the energy of the transmutation, preventing it from going where Ed had hoped it would. One of the symbols seemed to suggest eternity, another merely a simple lifeline, and still another hinted at nothingness, at an endless void. They were different concepts, and yet as Roy compared them, a feeling nagged at the back of his mind, as though he was missing something, some commonality uniting them...

He saw his companion's lower lip beginning to tremble, and wondered helplessly if he should try to take the drawings away. But Al went on, glassy eyes fixed on the charts as he traced the circles, over and over, with his fingers. "Sometimes I told him I was just glad to be alive, and maybe he should stop looking, but he'd get mad at me and tell me he'd never stop as long as he lived. So he kept reading, and making the drawings and finding out that every new method he thought of kept running into that same wall. He used to get so frustrated…"

"Let me guess," Roy murmured. "He'd throw all of this on the floor, and then have to pick it up again. Which would put him into an even better mood."

Al's lips curved upward slightly. "You did know him, didn't you?" His brows drew together in a faint frown. "What I don't understand – what I just don't understand – is how it finally happened. All that work, all that research, and he couldn't find a way, and then – then it just happened, as though he never had to work at it, at all. It just _happened_. How could it suddenly _happen_ like that, when he didn't even do anything? Like it didn't need _him_ at all, like he didn't even matter. But he did matter. He _did!_ I don't understand it – "

"Alphonse." Roy put a hand on the boy's shoulder, trying to calm Al's rising distress. "You know Ed. He always tried to finesse everything, get every tiny detail perfectly correct. Maybe it was sheer brute force he needed, and that's what he kept missing. He used it when he was on the fly and had no choice, but for something as important as your life, he'd never have risked it. But all those different kinds of alchemic reactions all around us during that last battle when we defeated them – maybe it was just a matter of battering at the block with every kind of alchemy anyone could think of, until the block collapsed, and there you were, back in your body."

"Do you really think that was it?" Al asked softly, gaze lowered. "Was it really that simple?" His eyes flickered, briefly, as Winry passed them on her way to the other side of the room. Outside the window, a whistle shrilled as some training group began going through their paces.

Roy didn't blame the kid for sounding so doubtful. He wasn't even sure he believed it himself. "Maybe that's not it," he had to admit. "I just don't know what other explanation there could be."

"Well, here it is." Winry's voice intruded into their conversation. She had opened the door of the small closet beside the door, and as they turned, she pulled a garment out, leaving a hanger jangling inside. "I wondered where this thing was," she said.

Al drew a sharp breath. In a bright flash of red, Ed's long hooded coat seemed to ripple in Winry's grasp as she held up it in front of her. Without warning, Al rushed toward her, face twisting in pain, and literally grabbed the coat out of her hands, clutching it in a bundle to his chest. He gasped as though he'd been stabbed, crying, "Ed! _Ed!_" Bursting into tears, he buried his face in the soft red folds, the fabric muffling the sobs that began to shake his shoulders.

Roy made as though to go to him, but Pinako put up her hand, shaking her head. Instead, Winry guided the young man toward Ed's bed and sat down with him, putting her arms around him and pulling his head onto her shoulder.

Roy sank onto the other bed, setting an elbow on one knee and leaning his forehead onto his hand. He remembered. Ed had been wearing all black that day. There'd been some chance he'd need to sneak into the warehouse, and hopefully remain unnoticed in the shadows, until he could slip out and let the others know which entrances or walls were weakest and most vulnerable to attack from outside. As though he could ever really be unobtrusive with that bright hair…

'_Hold on, Ed! Help is coming! Hang on just a little longer!'_

_The ghastly spreading bloodstain hardly visible in the fabric of the black jacket…_

He felt the mattress depress as someone sat beside him, and Pinako murmured, "Don't worry about Alphonse. He'll need to do this a few more times, I think."

Roy nodded. "We both will, actually."

"Winry and I have had our own moments like this, the past few days." Pinako fell silent again. He idly noted that even though she sat on the very edge of the mattress, her toes just touched the floor. He closed his eyes, listening to Al's muffled sobs and Winry's quiet sniffles, until he heard the woman add quietly, "I always knew you loved that boy."

Wondering at first which boy she meant, he decided it didn't matter. She was right in either case.

Presently he stood up again and returned to the desk. He could at least keep sorting the papers into categories, so Al could decide which ones he wanted to keep and which he should discard. Whatever he could do to make this task simpler for his young friend, he'd do it.

A few minutes later, after Al and Winry had gradually stopped weeping, Roy heard the girl murmur quietly, "So, Al. I bet you're keeping the coat, huh?"

Roy glanced back in time to see the boy give her a light punch on the shoulder. "You idiot," Al answered with a slight laugh. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes, and held the coat out. "This smells like him, doesn't it?"

Winry bent and took a deep breath in the folds of the coat, then lifted her head with a wistful smile. "Yes it does. I can smell his soap. And his automail."

"I thought so." Al himself followed suit, closing his eyes and slowly breathing in the lingering scent of his brother. His fingers moved in the folds, rubbing gently as he absorbed the texture of the material, gazing raptly at the red fabric. It reminded Roy , suddenly, of yesterday in the garden, as Al had discovered the scent and texture of the rose petals.

When he was finished, reluctantly dragging his attention back to the task he was here for, Al stood and shook out the coat, then put it on without another word, coming to stand beside Roy at the desk. Absently straightening the collar of his shirt with one hand, he flipped through some note papers with the other.

It was shorter on him, the man thought with a pang, realizing again that Alphonse was taller than his brother. The coat came only just below Al's knees. Ed would have been so irritated.

The work continued, the two women speaking quietly to each other from time to time, while Roy and Al consulted occasionally on whether to keep or discard some random paper. They sorted for a few minutes more before Roy asked, "Didn't you do any alchemy research of your own, Al? All of this seems to be Ed's work. Did you do everything jointly?"

"No, I had my own notes, but I kept them a little tidier," the boy smiled. "I have some file folders," he waved a vague hand, "stuck in with all of Ed's books."

Roy looked over to the bookcase. "What books?" he asked.

"The ones in the – " Al frowned, following the man's gaze. "What…? Where did all the books go?" Apart from bread, toaster, and hot plate, the bookcase was empty except for a couple of folders full of paper, lying flat on the second shelf. Al stared at them as though he'd never seen them before. "That's really weird," he muttered.

Roy knew exactly what he meant. "I sort of expected to have to bring Ed's books home in a big cart," he agreed. "Did he take them somewhere else to work with, maybe?"

"No, they were here just a few days ago." Al frowned again. "He was pulling them out and working on something pretty late one night, about three days before…" The boy turned and looked around the room in bewilderment, as though hoping to find the missing tomes stashed in piles under a bed.

Pinako, from the other side of Ed's bed, wondered, "Were they his own books, Alphonse?"

"No, they were all library books. I wonder – would the library have come and gotten them, once they heard he was…," Al averted his face, "…dead?"

Library books. The Central Library. Roy stared at the boy, unable to speak around the sudden cold constriction in his chest.

'_Oh, sorry, Ed, let me help you pick these up. This is quite a pile of books – are you taking them out or bringing them back?'_

'_Bringing back. It's my third trip, actually.' This with a laugh. 'I've had some of them out for years, and they're starting to threaten me with eviction from the dormitory if I don't settle the fines.'_

'_Look at this one – I don't believe you're reading something this outdated. Alchemists have done a lot more recent work than this.'_

_No longer laughing, eyes downcast, gathering the fallen books into a pile. Murmuring, 'You'd be surprised, the sort of things you can discover in the oldest books.'_

Two days before. Two days.

Why was that important? It wasn't…was it?

And Central Library might take the fines out of a person's salary, but they never threatened eviction because of them.

"What do you think?" Al asked again, watching him curiously. A floorboard creaked under his foot as he shifted.

"Yes," Roy lied, forcing himself to speak normally despite the heavy pulse thudding in his throat. "Yes, I'm sure that's it. The library sent someone to retrieve the books."

"Then we're almost done," Winry said, picking up her knapsack from the floor and pulling out a couple of folded-up canvas bags. "I don't know if I brought enough bags for everything you'll want to keep, Alphonse."

"Actually," Roy put in, eagerly grabbing at the change of subject, "I've arranged for the staff downstairs to deliver Al's things to my place this evening. We just need to label the piles, and they'll take care of everything. Anything you want donated elsewhere, Al, we'll put in a separate pile and they'll take that too. And they'll clear out the garbage as well." Which reminded him. He walked to the bookcase and scooped the dry, crusty loaf of bread into the trash can, before straightening and picking up the military documents. Those were classified, and his responsibility.

In silence, Al surveyed the discrete piles of materials, now neatly arranged along the edge of Ed's bed: Ed's research, crammed into the file folders with his own, some stationery supplies, a few toiletries, three neat piles of clothes, and a single white plate. His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

Roy followed his forlorn gaze and understood exactly what his young friend was thinking. "There should be more than this," the man murmured, fresh pain gripping his heart. "He did so much…there should be more than this, to show that he existed, and did such great things."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Winry bury her face in her hands.

Al looked up at Roy for a moment. When he returned to his contemplation of Ed's possessions, that Elric determination shone again from his large grey eyes. "There is more," he said, pressing a hand flat on the red fabric over his heart. "There are stories about him in every little town and village we ever visited, in every country. It's going to be a long time before anyone forgets Edward Elric, the People's Alchemist. And – there's me. The fact that I exist at all is a miracle, and Ed was the one who did that. As long as I'm alive, nobody is ever going to forget him and what he did. I won't let them."

Roy put an arm around his shoulders. "Thank you," he said softly. "You're right. That's how he's going to be remembered. Edward was vastly more than," he indicated the beds, "just these things."

"Yes. So…give it all away. All except his research and mine."

"Al," Winry protested, wiping her eyes, "are you sure? You don't want anything else to remember him by? You could wear some of these clothes, you know. Maybe not the pants, because your legs are longer than his, but you could wear some of the shirts."

Al's fingers again caressed the fabric of the coat. "I have this," he said. "I don't need anything more. But why don't you take some of the shirts? I think he'd like it if you wore them."

So they did as he asked, and labelled everything for donation (except the research which Al was keeping, and some shirts, and the toaster and hot plate, which Winry happily stashed into her bags). By the time they were finished in the room, it was past lunchtime, so Roy offered to take them all out to eat somewhere.

"Unless you'd like to go back home and nap, Al," he added. "You look tired. How are you doing?"

"I'm tired, but I think I'll feel better if I eat, so let's go out. But first…" Al walked over to Ed's bed and set down his papers, picking up the pillow instead. He pressed his face into it and breathed, long and deeply. Then he set it back in its place, carefully smoothing it out and, once again picking up his files, he walked out the door, not looking back.

Roy stood aside as the women followed the boy into the hall. He paused one final time in the doorway, slowly surveying for the last time the place where Ed had slept, done his research, shared private times with his brother. The man's eyes came at last to rest on the empty bookcase, and again a cold, inexplicable unease took hold of him. He stepped back into the hall and pulled the door closed.

As though they had passed through an ordeal and now celebrated the release of tension, the four of them spent a cheerful couple of hours together as they enjoyed a long, leisurely lunch at an outdoor bistro Roy favoured. Pinako allowed Winry a glass of wine, which lifted her spirits considerably. Alphonse, on the other hand, took one taste from Roy 's glass and made a face, deciding to stick with juice. It was the first time in his life he'd ever tasted wine.

Almost inevitably, the talk revolved around Ed, and Al shared stories about things his brother had done on their journeys together. Most of the tales were funny – this was Edward, after all, who tended to leap into situations before really thinking – so the two young people laughed a great deal, even if they occasionally laughed around their tears. Roy and Pinako shared slightly more subdued reminiscences.

Between the laughter, the good soup (with lots of chunks in it), and the fresh air, Roy decided that the flush on Alphonse's cheeks was a sign of health rather than fever. And this was the first time he'd seen the boy's eyes so bright, in the two weeks that he'd had eyes again.

Still, by the time they'd walked Pinako and Winry back to their hotel, and then taken a cab home, Roy could tell that Al's reserves had pretty much been used up once more. So he helped him upstairs and into bed for a late afternoon nap.

And once he'd seen to it that the boy was asleep, he returned downstairs and stood for a long time in the kitchen, staring at the phone on the wall, listening to the stately back and forth sweep of the pendulum of the grandfather clock in the living room. It should have calmed him, should have eased the agitation that had started back in the boys' dormitory room. But nothing, it seemed, could do that.

Finally, forcing himself to a decision, knowing he'd never rest easy till he did this – whatever "this" was – Roy picked up the receiver and dialled the main switchboard at Central military headquarters. A moment later, the operator had put him through.

"Hello, Scieszka," he said. "This is Roy Mustang, and I have a confidential request. I'd like you to make me a list of every book Edward Elric returned to Central library in the week before he died."


	3. Chapter 3 Saying Goodbye

Chapter 3 – Saying Goodbye

_I feel like people must keep thinking, "Oh no, another chapter of 'Let's bawl our eyes out over Ed -- again'!" But I really didn't feel I could or should bypass the proceedings in Risembool. However, now we're not going to be so constantly bawling (I think), even though in the last two chapters we're going to find out more about Ed and, you know, those books and things. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, as much as one "enjoys" a chapter about a funeral. Heh._

**xXxXxXx**

Chapter 3 – Saying Goodbye

Roy put a steadying hand on Al's shoulder as two of Pinako's neighbours removed their suit jackets in the late afternoon sun, bent with their shovels, and began to toss dirt into the grave. The first shovel full landed with a moist clatter as clods of earth scattered and bounced along the top of the coffin, and immediately the men turned to the low mound behind them for another load. Al stood straight and rigid under Roy's hand, wide grey eyes fixed on the men's movements, each time following the arc of the soil as it flew into the air, his body jolting a little when it landed on the wood below.

To the left, following the gentle decline of the land, other headstones seemed to meander casually down the grassy slope toward a low grey stone wall that marked the boundary of the cemetery. Small stands of trees dotted the graveyard in several places, some sheltering benches where mourners could sit, and others leaning over older graves as though to give them shade and protect them from the weather. Roy could detect the faint, sweet smell of clover.

Al had stood in silence throughout the entire graveside ceremony, the bright red hooded coat he wore over his black suit glaring against the backdrop of everyone else's more sombre clothing. Roy, hovering at his side, had foregone the military uniform he'd worn for the State funeral, opting instead for his own simple black suit. Winry and Pinako, too, had dressed soberly, Winry in a sleeveless navy dress, and Pinako in black. But he was sure that everyone understood why Al was dressed as he was.

It surprised him, how many neighbours had shown up today; he'd expected just Al, the Rockbells, and himself to be here for this final farewell, since Ed had left this area so many years ago. But the people of Risembool and the surrounding farms hadn't forgotten the boys who had once lived and played in their midst: neither the bright, fearless Edward nor the happy, gentle Alphonse. They had always been proud of the Fullmetal Alchemist as they'd learned of his and his brother's exploits, never forgetting that the Elric boys had belonged first to them, whatever else the two had gone on to do.

And so they had gathered this afternoon at the hillside cemetery, a large crowd of them behind Alphonse and the three others who now constituted his family, to remember and honour their hometown boy who had finally returned home to stay. The tall, lean Mayor of Risembool had said a few words, peering at the gathering over his glasses, and two women and another man from the community had also spoken, recounting memories they had of Edward, Alphonse, and their mother. Pinako had briefly mentioned how much she and her granddaughter were going to miss Ed, remarked how he would have loved being the centre of attention today (a comment that elicited more than a few knowing chuckles), and had thanked everyone for coming, for Al's sake as well as Ed's.

And with that, the ceremony was over. Several sturdy men from neighbouring farms had stepped up to the sealed coffin of polished blond wood, emblazoned with the dragon symbol of a State Alchemist, and taking a firm grip on the ropes underneath it, had carefully lowered it into the grave. Now it was slowly disappearing beneath the earth of Risembool.

They were burying Edward beside Trisha his mother; in fact, the men with the shovels stood right at the edge of her grave, and the temporary mound of dark, loose dirt drifted partway across its foot. Roy gazed at the headstone marking her resting place, and despite the warmth of his suit in the bright sun, shivered at an involuntarily memory: standing in a cold rain on a high hill six years ago, looking across a low valley at the distant lights of a house. From whose windows a blazing glow suddenly spilled, and from which erupted a prolonged, unearthly scream that had made his hair stand on end, and sent him running down the hill to follow the trail of a hulking metal figure making its way to a neighbouring house, carrying a slight form, mutilated and bleeding, in its arms.

The tragedies and adventures that had stemmed from a single woman's death, and the refusal of her sons to accept it…

Now that hulking metal figure stood beside him, a fragile human boy who seemed frozen in a sort of dazed agony, as though the heart had been torn from his body but it hadn't yet collapsed. Al didn't move a muscle, but his sunken, unblinking eyes ran with rivers of slow tears as he watched the dark soil gradually obscure the dragon symbol and cover the box in which his brother was encased.

All that bright, brilliant life cut off and buried in the ground. How could they possibly go on without him? Roy pressed his free hand over his eyes, trying to stop his own tears. Surely he had wept enough, the last three weeks.

Even with the hand on Al's shoulder, Roy barely had warning before the boy pulled free and stepped to the edge of the grave, dropping to his knees. Al did nothing more than that at first, just watched silently as the dirt kept falling, hands pressed to the ground in front of his knees, fingers curling over the edge of the hole. The tears flowing and flowing, almost unnoticed, down his face.

A hollow thump, as another shovel full landed. A deep, loamy smell wafted up from the dark depths of the grave.

Roy went to one knee beside the boy, and set a hand on his back. "Alphonse?" he murmured. "How can I help?"

He sensed that Al had begun to shiver, despite how warm he must be in his suit, inside the coat. A light sweat dotted the boy's forehead as his eyes moved slowly to Roy's face, their focus so vague that Roy wondered if the kid even recognized him. "So – he – so lonely," Al faltered. "So lonely – inside all by himself – so alone."

The desolation in his voice lacerated Roy's heart. "Al. I think you've had enough. Let me take you back to the house."

"His soul – trapped in the box – what if it can't get out – sealed into the box – sealed so it can't get out – "

_As Al had been sealed…_

"Alphonse, please." Roy fought to keep his voice steady. Behind him he heard a murmur of pitying voices from several people close to the front of the crowd. "Ed wouldn't be upset if you had to leave before they were finished – "

"No." The word was harsh, uncompromising, and the youngster averted his face, jaw set. That damned Elric stubbornness, even at a moment like this.

Al watched another spreading arc of dirt flying through the air above the coffin. His hand darted out to catch a clump of it, and he held it out before him, moving his fingers slowly back and forth to break it up. He turned his hand over, fingers splayed, eyes following the fragments as they cascaded downward.

One of the shovelling men hesitated, but the other tossed another arc of dirt, and Al made a second grab. He gazed raptly at the cool, dark soil as his fingers worked it apart. Slowly he raised his hand and began to rub the dirt on his face, gently, almost lovingly.

"Al, don't!" Winry cried, hands over her mouth, frightened eyes pleading for Roy to do something. He heard several people gasp behind him.

He clutched the boy's wrist, pulling the hand away from the damp, muddy cheek. "Al, stop. I'm taking you back now."

"No." Again the uncompromising refusal. And again a hand darted out – the other hand this time – to grab a clump of dirt. "We share," Al whispered. "Brothers – share everything." And he held the hand above his head, and began to sprinkle the dirt on his hair.

With a groan, Roy pulled him to his feet, then swept the boy up into his arms. "I'm sorry, Alphonse. We have to go back now."

"No – please." Al protested and pushed his hands against Roy's chest. But all the strength had drained out of him, and his heavy head dropped against the man's shoulder and he wept plaintively as Roy strode through the parting crowd. Several people cast sympathetic glances at the two of them, but Roy saw others shaking their heads grimly, as though they had witnessed another death.

A few of the community women had stayed behind in Pinako's large, airy kitchen, setting out a cold luncheon for the mourners when they returned from the cemetery. One of the women came forward as Roy pushed the door open, pushing a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear and then wiping her hands on a tea towel. She murmured, "Oh, the poor boy. He'll need to get to bed right away, I think. And oh my, what happened to his face?"

"He fell," Roy lied, though he was sure she'd soon hear the real truth. "Do you think you could bring up a wet cloth so I can get him clean?"

"I'll do that," she nodded.

He carefully climbed the stairs and carried his burden into the bedroom they shared. Laying the boy on his bed, Roy began to open the red coat, preparing to pull the arms out of the sleeves, but Al clenched his fists in the fabric and pulled it tightly closed, rolling over onto his side, curling into himself. Roy decided to leave him as he was for the time being, despite the warmth in the room.

Maybe he could cool it down a little instead, he decided. He skirted the end of Al's bed, walking past a large armoire to the window in the wall on the other side of his own bed. (Ed's bed, in past times.) He pushed the window open, to keep the air flowing, but drew the curtains to keep the sunlight from heating up the bedroom even more. Then he returned to Al's side, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, gently rubbing the boy's back as he cried.

The train trip to Risembool had taken more out of Alphonse than they'd expected, even though they had set up a cot for him in a private compartment. He'd seemed glad enough to be going home, but had grown quiet and weary, more quickly each day, until he'd spent most of the third day sleeping. Roy had begun to worry, wondering why a train ride, which didn't require Al to exert himself very much, should drain his stamina so drastically. But Pinako had reminded him, as the two of them and Winry had conversed quietly in the next compartment, "Ed's coffin is in the car right behind us, and he's not likely to forget that."

Roy had recognized immediately that she was right. This was the last journey Edward and Alphonse would ever take together.

Sitting beside the boy on the bed now, he realized how many "last things" Al had had to endure in the three weeks since Ed's death and his own transformation. Never mind the adjustments he needed to make, just becoming accustomed to his body again, which would necessarily occupy most of his attention and could take all his energy on its own account. But on top of that, he'd had his brother's death thrust before him over and over, for a solid three weeks, as he'd had to anticipate and participate in two funerals, clear out Ed's things, make a long trip home, and make new living arrangements.

No wonder he was exhausted.

By the time the woman came upstairs, to set a small basin of warm water and a cloth on the nightstand beside the bed, Al was deeply asleep. So deeply, in fact, that he barely stirred as Roy gently washed the mud off his face and lifted his shoulders so he could be undressed. He held Al's sleeping form against his chest as he helped the woman pull off both the coat and the suit jacket from behind, and tugged the covers back. Then, laying the boy back down on the sheets, Roy loosened and removed his tie, while his companion took off Al's shoes.

Slipping the covers over him, Roy hesitated at the bedside, gazing down at the boy. Al's lashes fringed darkly against his pale skin, his golden brown hair tousled as he turned one cheek into the pillow. He breathed slowly and evenly, but the blotches on his cheeks, from crying, were slow to fade.

The woman touched Roy's arm. "He's not going to wake up for hours, sir, if that's what you're wondering. If you'd like to come down and have something to eat, it should be safe to leave him a while. But I'll be glad to bring something up to you instead if you're not comfortable."

Roy smiled warmly at her. "You're very kind. Thanks for your help; I'm not sure I'd have managed without it. I think I'll come down for a while, and bring some supper up for Al later." He made as though to leave but then, turning back and picking up the red coat from where it had been laid on a chair by the armoire, he spread it on top of the covers, over the boy's curled form.

His companion led the way downstairs, smiling over her shoulder at him as she returned to her tasks in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway at the base of the stairwell, and now realized just how long they'd been upstairs. The crowd at the graveside had migrated here, filling the house with people. Some sat at the kitchen table with small plates of cold cuts, cheese, and fruit, while others stood talking quietly in small groups along the windows, through which he could see more people gathered on the porch at the front of the house. Meanwhile, the sound of murmured conversation crept into the stairwell from its other exit into the living room.

Looking across the kitchen toward the windows, he spotted Winry right away – or rather, she spotted him, and began to plow a course in his direction, through the crowd. She stopped in the doorway, using both hands to push her bright, loose hair back from her own face as she examined his. "How is he?" she demanded anxiously. "Granny wouldn't let me go upstairs to see."

"He'll be fine, Winry," Roy assured her. "It's been a long three weeks of saying goodbye, but he's going to get through this. It may sound callous, but probably the best thing for Alphonse will be to have all of this over and done with, so he can start looking ahead instead of back."

"I don't know if it's callous or not," the girl nodded wearily, "but I'm starting to feel the same way. I…I almost feel like Ed's been dying over and over for a month, and it would just be kinder if it was finished. And then I feel like…like that means I _want_ him dead, and I really don't, I…I really just want it never to have happened."

As he saw her tears welling up, Roy put a hand on her shoulder and drew her into the relative privacy of the stairwell landing. The sound of surrounding conversation was immediately muted. "I understand completely," he murmured. "It feels like a nightmare you can't wake up from."

"That's it exactly. And then…I don't _want_ to wake up, because if I do, then he'll finally be gone. And I always thought…," Winry pressed a hand to her mouth for a moment, unable to speak, her blue eyes shining with the unshed tears. She forced herself to go on, "I always thought he'd come home to me some day, you know. I loved him so much…I thought we'd be together some day…" She bowed her head, hugging her arms tightly across her chest, the tears finally overflowing.

"Winry," Roy whispered, "he would have come to you eventually, I'm sure of it. He'd been settling down, the last year, taking more responsibility, not needing to wander nearly so much. He was growing up."

'_I'm going to tell you something that will make you gloat…I've been a completely self-centred, irresponsible twit…but maybe I can fix some of that now…'_

Roy went on, ignoring the twist of pain in his gut, trying not to remember the uplifted chin, the half-defensive, half-defiant bravado in the bright gold eyes, glaring at him across the desk. "I know he loved you. I really believe he'd have come for you one day soon, if this…"

"…if only this hadn't happened," she finished, managing a twisted smile. "And there's that nightmare again. But I'm glad you said that anyway, General Mustang. It does feel good to hear it, even if…even if it will never happen now." Winry wiped her eyes, glancing over her shoulder into the milling crowd in the kitchen. "I suppose I should go talk to more people, especially since Al can't do it. But thanks for helping." She turned to go, but then stopped and looked back. "How are _you_ doing?" she asked suddenly. "I know you cared about Ed too, and now you're taking care of Al…this has to be very hard for you."

It was so rare for anyone to think to ask that question that Roy's eyes stung and he had to swallow the tightness in his throat before he could answer. "Thank you for being so kind, Winry. Yes, it's pretty hard. But it helps, to have Alphonse to care for. It forces me to be strong, for his sake. I'd hate to let either of them down."

She smiled. "You're a lot like them, you know," she said, and walked away, into the crowd.

**xXxXxXx**

Pinako found him a little later, head bowed and hands leaning heavily on the wooden rail of the front porch where he had stumbled, half-blind with tears, after Winry's comment. He'd been distantly aware of people coming and going, and vaguely knew that he had managed to respond adequately to the condolences of some who had occasionally approached him, but for the most part, his mind had cocooned him into a separate space for a while. Hidden safely away, a dispassionate part of him reflected that he hadn't felt so battered and emptied since the massacres in Ishbal.

"It's been a tough day for everyone," Pinako commented, grabbing a chair and plopping herself into it, crossing her ankles and resting her feet on a lower rung of the rail. She surveyed the wide, grassy yard in front of the house, where a few people still stood talking. The shadows of the trees on the western edge of the yard were already beginning to lengthen eastward as suppertime approached. "How are you holding up? Winry said she thought you were in a bad way."

"I've been better," Roy agreed, not looking up. His fingers moved slightly over the smooth wood of the rail. "I'll bounce back in a while. I still need to take something up for Al to eat."

"It may be better if you just let him sleep," the woman said. "I think he needs that more than anything else."

"You're probably right. I still want to check on him, though. It really scared me, watching him pouring graveyard dirt on himself."

"I admit, that threw me, too," she nodded. "I think you need to get him away from here, Roy. Even if he wants to stay. He needs to get started on a normal life soon, or he may never manage it."

'_Brothers – share everything.'_

Roy shuddered. "Will he be willing to leave Ed behind, though?" he wondered. He turned around, sitting against the edge of the rail, soberly regarding the diminutive woman. "Pinako, I…"

"Got something else on your mind?" Her steady, piercing eyes seemed ready to bore straight into his skull.

"I don't know." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I remember when Maes died, how I kept thinking, at first, that I could have prevented it. Even though now I realize I was wrong, and it wasn't my fault. But this time…" He jammed his hands into his pockets and stared glumly at his shoes. "You know that Ed died in my arms, I assume?"

"Yes, I'd heard that." The woman watched him suspiciously, before suddenly exclaiming, "Roy Mustang, don't tell me you've found some way to make Ed's death all your fault!"

He cast her a sideways glance and answered defensively, "Well…not really…except…"

"Except what?"

"Except I might have been able to cauterize the wound long enough to get him to a hospital."

"But…?"

"But he grabbed my arm in a spasm of pain, and before I could pull it free to snap my fingers, Al started to change." Roy thought back with a shudder, remembering. The kid had screamed and screamed as the armour seemed to unravel, as though someone had pulled a thread and its constituent elements simply fell apart. The whirlwind of alchemy all around the three of them had been so powerful, he'd felt as though the very atoms of his own body were about to be torn apart. "It was…pretty horrifying," Roy muttered. "I haven't heard anyone scream like that since Ishbal. Al doesn't remember any of it, thank goodness."

"So you couldn't snap your fingers while the change was happening, and now you think you're the reason Ed died."

Roy sighed. "I know, Pinako…it's irrational. It all happened so quickly, I probably couldn't have managed it no matter what I did. I just keep feeling as though…"

With astonishing speed for a woman her age – and size – Pinako reached up and grabbed his necktie, yanking his head down into glaring distance. "Mustang, you are to stop that train of thought right now. I don't think I've ever met anyone so bent on blaming himself for everything bad that ever happens."

"Well…I'm right, a lot of the time, aren't I?" he defended himself. But he couldn't help answering her oh-so-accurate accusation with a wry smile. "But you're right all the time, especially now. I know I'm just feeling guilty because Al's having such a hard time. And I really wish there was something I could do to make this easier for him."

"Get him away from here," the woman repeated, releasing him so he could straighten up again. "Get Alphonse back to Central and he'll be a lot better."

"Yes, ma'am," Roy answered quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

**xXxXxXx**

He wasn't sure what had awakened him at first. But hearing the rustling of covers on the other bed, Roy rolled over and peered across, squinting into the dark. He could just make out a dim, upright shape against the headboard, and realized that Al had finally woken up.

"Alphonse?" he ventured quietly. "Are you all right?" He felt a lift of cool air at his back, as the curtain stirred.

"I'm fine," the boy's voice returned. "I'm sorry if I woke you." He actually did sound fine, or at least a lot better than he had at the graveside. The ragged despair seemed to have dissipated, and although his words still dragged with weariness, their tone was calm.

But Roy decided to make sure. "Watch your eyes," he murmured, reaching for his glove on the nightstand. Snapping quickly, to light the candles on his nightstand and Al's, he sat up. He saw that Al had propped his pillows against the headboard behind him, so he could lean against them, cross-legged. At first he just continued staring into the distance, his face still drawn and drained, but finally his eyes moved to Roy's face. And they were alert and clear. Even his skin looked healthier, less pale. The sleep had obviously done him a lot of good.

"You slept through supper," the man said. "Would you like me to get you something?"

"Thanks, but I'm fine. I'll have a big breakfast in the morning. No matter who says I shouldn't," the boy added with a cock of an eyebrow.

Now, that little smile _was_ encouraging, and Roy allowed himself a light chuckle. "Kid, I'll grill you the steak myself, if that's what you want."

"I was thinking ham and eggs, actually." Al sobered quickly, his eyes sliding away as he muttered, "By the way, I'm sorry about…before." He brushed light fingers across his cheek, adding, "And thanks for cleaning me up."

Roy could feel the silence of the house, a palpable thing, settled around them like a soft blanket of privacy. "Don't worry about it. You've been through a lot lately, and it's hard to handle sometimes."

"But I'm getting kind of sick of always having that excuse."

"I know. Though it does get better eventually, even if that doesn't really help right now."

"It does help. I need to keep reminding myself." Al sighed wearily and leaned further back into the pillows. He pulled up a knee and laid an arm across it. "You know what the hardest thing is, though…?"

Roy arranged himself more comfortably, sitting cross-legged as he faced the boy, pulling the blankets across his lap. "Tell me," he prompted gently.

"I didn't even have a chance to say goodbye to him. One minute I was in the armour, trying to get him to hold on till help could come, and then everything blacked out, and suddenly I was in my body and Ed was already gone. He died, and it was like I…wasn't even there. And I never said goodbye."

"Dying never happens according to a script, Alphonse," Roy reminded him. "If I'd had my way, I'd have been with Maes too, and the last thing he heard would have been my voice, telling him I loved him. And I'm sure his own preference would have been dying in Gracia's arms, hearing her telling him the same thing. Instead, he was completely alone. That's how it happens sometimes, and we can't fix that."

"At least you were holding Ed. I know that was a comfort to him. And it's always going to be a comfort to me. But there's one thing that I'm going to regret, for the rest of my life."

Such sad words, Roy thought with a pang of grief, to be coming from the mouth of a teenager. "What is that?"

The boy's brows drew together. "Ed died without knowing that it finally happened – that I got my body back. It's what he lived for and worked for, all those years, and when it finally, actually happened, he was dead."

"But Al," Roy protested, leaning forward, "that's not true. I thought you knew."

Al's eyes flew to his face. "What do you mean?"

"Ed saw – he knew. We both watched it happening – he saw you change."

"Are – are you sure? D-did he really?" It sounded as though all the breath had been cut off in Al's throat.

"I swear, I'm telling you the truth. He saw it all. He was alive right till the end, he saw that you were back, and he was very happy, Alphonse."

"He saw me. He was…happy," Al repeated, as though in a daze. His head dropped back against the headboard as he buried the fingers of both hands in his tousled hair. He whispered, "So…he died happy?"

"Yes he did. He got to see the greatest wish of his life come true."

Al closed his eyes, an almost blissful smile suffusing his face. "So Ed knew…and he was happy…oh good. Oh _good,_ Ed."

"And that's the same thing he said when he saw you, Al."

Roy had had no idea how heavily the thought had weighed on the boy's mind, that their years-long goal had finally been attained, and Ed had never even known it. But Al looked as though the unbearable weight had suddenly rolled off his shoulders, leaving him almost buoyant. Even his breathing seemed to come more easily, and from the vantage point of the neighbouring bed, Roy could almost swear there was more colour in his face.

"Thank you, Roy," Al breathed, eyes shining. "That means everything to me."

"If I'd known you didn't know that, I'd have told you weeks ago. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. At least I know now. And now…I think I can go back to Central and everything will be okay. Ed _knew…_" Al paused again, just to absorb the thought afresh. But after a moment, he turned back toward Roy, with a twinkle in his eyes that Roy had never seen there before – indeed, had only previously seen in the eyes of his brother. "You know what?" Al said. "I think I'm hungry after all. In fact, I'm _starving._ Let's sneak downstairs and raid the pantry. Pinako will _kill_ us."

**xXxXxXx**

They caught the train back to Central two days later. But that morning, just before they left, Al and Roy made one final visit to Edward's grave, where the fresh mound had been smoothed over and grass had already been seeded. Al had picked some flowers from Pinako's garden, that he now laid with care against his mother's headstone while Roy stood back a respectful distance, hands in his pockets, to allow the youngster some privacy.

Then the boy turned to the new grave, with its own brand new headstone, and went to one knee at its edge, the red coat pooling on the grass beside him and the rising sun striking gold glints from his hair. He closed his solemn grey eyes, took a deep breath, and clapped his hands together.

Roy drew a sharp breath as Al dropped his hands to the ground. The unmistakable blinding glow of alchemical power burst from the grass all around the grave, and the man lurched forward in sudden irrational fear. Al couldn't be – not after the consequences last time – surely he wasn't –

But he wasn't. As the bright glow faded and Roy, shading his eyes, blinked his vision back to some kind of normalcy, he saw Al lean back on his heels and inspect his handiwork with a satisfied smile. All around the new grave, blooming in riotous golds and oranges and reds, he had created a lush border of marigolds.

The colour of Ed's hair. The colour of his eyes.

"Goodbye, big brother," Al murmured, and stood up.


	4. A Hard Truth

Chapter 4 – A Hard Truth

Roy huddled close to Hawkeye and steadied the umbrella over their heads, as the grey dampness of the early morning coalesced into a light drizzle. Judging by the lowering, heavy cloud cover from horizon to horizon, he thought it was probably safe to assume it would be raining all day.

He'd insisted that the three of them take their regular morning walk anyway. After seeing the rosy flush creeping into Al's cheeks, and watching him grow stronger and more toned in the week since they'd returned from Risembool and begun this daily practice, Roy wasn't going to interrupt the good work now. He would concede to the rain just enough that they'd skip their regular morning digging in the garden, though. They could probably substitute a bit of experimentation in Roy's alchemy workshop in the basement instead.

"Some of the companies are supposed to practise drills on the dormitory field today," Hawkeye remarked, watching Al and Black Hayate playing halfway down the block. The boy had raised a thick stick above the dog's head, Hayate obligingly jumping for it. They could hear Al's clear laughter all the way from here, since there was very little traffic on the street yet.

"I can imagine how they're going to enjoy that," Roy chuckled. "That field becomes a bog when it's wet."

"Our people were originally on the list, but the higher-ups decided to reward them for the good work during our last operation, so we've all escaped the bog."

"Can you imagine how Breda would have complained?" Roy shook his head.

Alphonse and Black Hayate had now turned back to walk toward the two adults again. In his red coat, the youngster stood out like a beacon against the backdrop of the grey weather. The houses on this side of the street sported the usual flower boxes and rose bushes, but the blooms all seemed rather colourless, and hunched into themselves as though seeking shelter beside the window panes or along the fences. There weren't many people walking between the shops on the other side of the street, but then, it was still pretty early for customers to be out and about.

Roy observed the slow progress of Alphonse and Black Hayate, and reflected in amusement that when he'd compared a walk with Al to a walk with a little dog, he hadn't been far off the mark. Both boy and dog wanted to stop _everywhere_. Or else they took turns: Hayate stopping to pee on a fencepost (at least Al didn't do _that_), then Al stopping farther along the same fence to hang over and try to sniff the flowers on the other side of it, his feet dangling.

The man had quietly complained to Hawkeye about this phenomenon, their second day out. "Al's not getting very vigorous exercise, stopping every few feet like that."

"Well, sir," the woman had replied sensibly, "at least he's getting a lot of fresh air, and his muscles are still being used and toned. I think it will do him good anyway."

She was right, of course. And more important than that – the kid was having a good time. That probably benefited him more than anything else.

"So tell me, what's going on at the office today?" Roy asked now, raising his voice slightly as the drizzle gave way to the intermittent fall of raindrops, tapping an irregular beat on the black umbrella overhead.

Despite having taken an extra month's leave of absence so he could work every day with Al to help him recover from his ordeals, Roy kept in touch with his people through Hawkeye's morning reports. Bringing Hayate over to walk with Al provided the perfect opportunity for his lieutenant to keep him up to speed, and receive instructions to take back to the office if necessary. They telephoned during the day as well, and occasionally, if there were papers he needed to sign or read, she'd bring them over in the afternoon and they'd discuss them while Al had his regular nap.

"There's not much more than I mentioned yesterday," Hawkeye responded. "Havoc and Breda will be chasing down some last repercussions of the raid on the alchemists' warehouse, to contribute to Investigations' final report next week."

"Make sure I see the finished copies of anything we send them from our side," Roy instructed.

"I'd already planned to bring you those reports on Thursday, sir."

Al still had the stick, and was holding it high, turning around and around as Hayate leaped enthusiastically for it. Roy smiled at the sound of the boy's breathless laughter, as Al then lowered the stick and engaged in a tug of war with the dog.

Hawkeye remarked, "I really think his face is filling out a bit. He doesn't look so gaunt." She smiled briefly at Roy . "Your cooking, I suppose?"

"Naturally," he answered with more than a trace of smugness. He was an excellent cook, and he knew it. He was taking particular care to provide very healthy meals every day, so he was sure he could take some of the credit for the boy's healthier colour and growing strength. And Alphonse seemed very much to enjoy helping with the meals, so he might make a good cook himself some day.

Now Al bent over and ran his hands along the dog's sides several times, while Hayate obliged him by standing still, panting happily, tail wagging. They'd noticed from the beginning that the rough feel of the fur seemed to fascinate the boy.

"Are you and Jean coming over for dinner tomorrow night?" Roy wondered. He was starting to make a practice of having guests in, every second or third evening, to give Al some variety and a little social life.

"We'll be there, sir. Should we bring anything?"

"No, I've got it all covered. By the way, Al's going to want to talk to you both about sparring with him when he's feeling stronger. He doesn't want to fight any more, the way he did when he travelled with Ed, but he thinks some recreational sparring will help him get into better shape when he's ready."

"I'll enjoy helping him with that, and I know Jean will too."

In the meantime, Al was getting enough exercise that he was sleeping well, afternoon and night, which meant that Roy had already plunged into his reading.

Scieszka, as requested, had had the book list waiting for him upon his return from Risembool, and came to the house once or twice a week when he called – while Al was napping – to bring whatever books he asked for, and take back the ones he'd finished. He kept the books in a locked drawer in the desk in his bedroom, and only pulled them out when he knew the youngster had fallen asleep.

Even after a week of steady reading, Roy still hadn't found anything to justify his initial uneasiness about Ed's books, and still had no idea what he might be looking for. But he was determined to continue to read nonetheless.

He hadn't mentioned any of this to Hawkeye. He wasn't sure why.

By now the rain, while still light, was falling more steadily, and the temperature had to have plunged a couple of degrees at least. Al lifted his face skyward, spreading his arms wide, coat flapping open. He stuck his tongue out to catch some drops at first, but then simply closed his eyes, obviously concentrating on the sensation of the drops falling, one by one, on his skin.

"Alphonse," Roy said, "I think we'd better get back home now."

"Do we have to? This is so interesting. You can feel every drop."

"Not once it starts pouring – which it's going to, any minute. And you'll catch a chill if you keep letting your coat hang open like that."

"I've forgotten how it used to feel, to be cold," was the boy's only reply. He still hadn't moved or opened his eyes.

"Well, you're going to find out what it feels like to _have_ a cold if you don't – "

The supply truck came from nowhere, rounding a nearby corner too quickly, tires screeching as it skidded on the already damp road. Sliding sideways, leaning crazily, it careened toward the two adults, its wide-eyed driver fighting for control.

Roy shoved Hawkeye aside, then out of the corner of his eye caught Al leaping to the edge of the sidewalk, between them and the truck, arms spread wide and feet braced.

"_Alphonse!_" Roy shouted, grabbing a sleeve of the coat and yanking the boy aside to land with the adults in a heap against a fence, as one set of wheels on the truck skimmed over the part of the sidewalk where Al had stood, then thumped back onto the street.

The vehicle carried on down the road, Hayate barking furiously in pursuit until Hawkeye, leaping to her feet, sharply called the dog back. Roy got to his knees, pulled Al to a sitting position, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "_What the hell were you thinking, you idiot?_"

Al stared at him, blinking and white-faced. "I – it – that's how I always protected – " His eyes wide in dawning realization, he looked back over his shoulder toward the skid marks on the sidewalk. "I w-was trying to – to protect you," he faltered, voice trembling.

"Dammit, Al, you're not a suit of armour any more!" Roy cried, pulling the boy into a fierce embrace. He fought to calm down, but he couldn't bring himself to release his tight grip. "You could've gotten yourself killed."

"I'm sorry – Roy, I'm sorry – it just comes naturally – Ed was always in danger– I had to get so I did it without thinking – "

"I know. I realize that. I'm sorry I yelled." Roy tried to tell himself that it was only natural, how violently Al was shaking after what had just happened. But all he could think, as the fear raced through his veins like fire, was that he never wanted to let go of this boy. Never. "You just – you scared me to death, Al." He took a deep, shuddering breath, pressing his cheek to the youngster's hair. He forced his voice into something approaching a normal tone. "Kid, we've got to get you out of that little habit, the sooner the better. You'll get yourself run over, and I'll collapse of a heart attack."

'_You know us. You know Al. I think you could keep him safe.'_

"I'm trying…there's just so much…"

"I know. It's so much to ask. I'm sorry you've got everything coming at you at once." _Including a truck_, the man thought with another shudder, before he resolutely shoved the thought aside. It was time to get hold of himself. Al was fine.

Hawkeye brought Hayate over, and the dog nudged Al's shoulder a couple of times to get his attention. Al lifted a hand to pet him, absently, then raised his head and petted him again, studying how the rain drops rolled over the surface of the fur. That, more than anything, finally helped Roy's hammering pulse begin to slow down. The kid absorbed sense information like a sponge, even when he'd just had a scare. He was going to be okay.

"It's time we get you inside, Alphonse," Hawkeye told him. "Can you walk?"

"Oh yes. I'm okay. Really." He scrambled to his feet, wobbling a little till he regained his equilibrium. The incident had affected him enough that he stayed between his adult companions and didn't wander on the way home, content to remain in the circle of Roy's protective arm. After a few minutes, though, he mused thoughtfully, "I wonder how I could have developed reflexes like that…when I didn't even have a body…I'll have to read up on that…"

Roy and Hawkeye exchanged amused glances over the boy's head. There was that Elric mind again, Roy thought. It never stopped calculating and analyzing – even when it had almost been run down by a truck.

**xXxXxXx**

It was called soul alchemy. And while it wasn't officially forbidden, it was almost as taboo as human transmutation, with which it was often closely associated. But it hardly needed to be forbidden anyway, since it was so rarely successful, and since even its historical "success stories" tended to result in the death soon afterwards of the transplanted soul, and the madness or death of the alchemist who had tried the experiment.

Which explained why the experiment was so rarely ever tried.

And which made Ed's own accomplishment, of sealing his brother's soul into the suit of armour – at age eleven, with no prior experience, in the heat of a life-threatening crisis – probably the most stunning achievement of any alchemist who had ever lived.

It was no wonder, Roy thought wryly, that nobody had ever written down the instructions for undoing that achievement. They'd never been needed.

He sat, late at night, feet propped on a brocaded stool before the living room fireplace, sipping a glass of wine and reading one of the most recent books that Scieszka had brought him. The general focus of Ed's research had been clear from the first week: almost all the books contained information which directly or, more often, indirectly had some bearing on soul alchemy.

And the research had been staggeringly thorough, approaching the subject from every conceivable angle. Comparing the content of the books with the dates Ed had taken them out of the library, Roy could follow the young man's thought patterns. He'd begun with chimeras, as preliminary examples of life fusion. Then the idea of joining two bodies led to the underlying principle of joining any two things. (Roy had nodded to himself the day he'd realized this, noting the two books on the list which discussed the topic. He'd read them himself, years ago.)

That thought had forked, leading Ed into highly abstract theories of how fusions were accomplished on the one hand, and books about the different natures of materials on the other. (Roy could see both branches represented, in a flurry of books all checked out within about a week of each other, three years ago.) The question of materials led eventually to books on the existence and nature of the soul, and another abstract line of reasoning, about how the soul was connected to its original body in the first place. If one could understand this connection, one might decipher how to recreate it. (Though this began to edge awfully close to the type of human transmutation with which Ed had begun this whole ordeal. Roy was sure that the young man was well aware of it, too.)

What a mind Ed had had, to be able to read and encompass all of this as a teenager. He'd checked out his first book on a deeply abstract topic when he was fourteen.

But how frustrated he had to have been, at the same time. Roy took another sip of wine, closing the latest book on his lap and setting his hand thoughtfully on the worn brown leather cover. Setting the wine glass beside the lamp on the stand next to the arm chair, he returned to his contemplation of the fire, finally burning low in the grate.

Every book he'd read thus far – now nearing the end of the second week – had made only oblique references, offered only tangential information. He could see what Ed would have drawn from these books, tucking tidbits of information away for further use – but up to this point in his research, he'd have found nothing that would have been of immediate, practical help in releasing Al's soul from the armour and restoring it to his human body. All that study, with no useful result.

No wonder Edward was so irritable all the time, Roy thought with a sad smile.

**xXxXxXx**

This morning, they were baking a cake.

Roy had discovered that while Alphonse could remember enjoying his mother's chocolate cake when he'd been a child, he had no recollection whatsoever of the actual taste. This, of course, was an injustice that must immediately be rectified. And Roy, who'd been doing his own cooking and baking for years, was just the man to right this wrong.

The kitchen was pleasantly warm as the heat from the oven permeated the room. Al sat on the tall stool beside Roy as he put together the various ingredients. They'd bought the stool early the first week, so the boy could help stir things or chop vegetables even if it had been a long day and his legs were tired. Already, partway through the third week, he didn't need it so much; their daily walks were helping his leg muscles get a lot stronger. But he still enjoyed sitting close and watching.

"You add just a pinch of salt…like this…into the sifter, to enhance the taste a little," said Roy , "and then you mix it together and fluff it up at the same time." He lifted the sifter, with its burden of flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt, and began to squeeze the handle back and forth so all the dry ingredients cascaded in an airy mixture into the large glass bowl beneath it.

He felt Al's head leaning against his other arm, and smiled down warmly. The youngster still seemed to need a lot of this sort of physical contact, and to Roy's surprise, he himself didn't mind it. Rather liked it, even, though he'd never admit that to anyone. (If Maes were here, he thought with a flash of amusement, he'd have a field day with this.)

"Mom used to let Ed lick the spatula after she was done," Al blurted suddenly. "I just remembered."

"Do you remember licking it too?" Roy wondered, watching the last of the flour mixture rain into the bowl and raise a dusty cloud.

"I don't think so. But I'm sure she gave it to me sometimes. She wouldn't let just Ed have all the fun. Especially when he was such a brat sometimes." The boy paused for a moment, then sighed. "Roy," he murmured, "I miss him."

"I know you do. So do I."

"He used to have so many ideas about things he was going to do. And then he had to spend the whole rest of his life trying to find a way to get my body back, and he never got to plan for anything else. It's like I ruined – "

"Al." Roy cut him off, a little sharply. He added, more gently, "You know you can't let yourself start thinking that way. Right, Al?"

After a short silence, the boy reluctantly acquiesced, nodding his head against Roy's arm. "I know. It's just hard not to, sometimes."

"Tell me about it. Just say the name 'Maes Hughes' to me, and I can give you the same speech you were about to give me."

Al lifted his head up and met Roy's eyes, then managed a little smile. "I guess you do know how the speech goes, don't you?"

'_You'd understand him, in a way that Pinako – or even Winry – just wouldn't.'_

"That's right," Roy answered. "It's hard not to recite it to yourself, and even harder not to believe it. But we just can't believe it, Alphonse. Both Maes and Ed would tell us it isn't true, and that they never regretted anything. That's what we have to remember, whenever that speech starts running through our heads."

"I guess so. I am trying."

"I know you are. I still am." Roy picked up another bowl. "Now. Watch the beautiful thing that happens when you add the liquid ingredients. There's going to be a spatula for you to lick in a minute…"

He mixed the liquid in with several quick, expert strokes, and enjoyed how Al's eyes widened as the powdery mix transformed into a smooth, almost velvet batter with a brown chocolate sheen. He could tell the kid was just itching to plunge his hands into it, to feel the cool smoothness on his skin.

He lifted the bowl above the cake pan as Al slid it over to him, and poured the batter in, using the spatula to get it all out of the bowl, and then to spread and smooth it evenly in the pan. Al hopped off the stool and rushed to the oven, pulling the door open for him as he carried the pan over and set it on the rack. As the boy closed the oven door, Roy retrieved the spatula from the counter, and handed it over with a formal bow.

As expected, the first thing Al did was to take a dollop of batter and rub it slowly between fingers and thumb, eyes closed, savouring the texture. Watching his frown of concentration, Roy almost wanted to follow suit, and found himself wondering what the stuff actually felt like. But now Al put his fingers in his mouth to lick them clean, and his eyes flew open. He began quickly to lick the spatula, closing his eyes again, little noises of pleasure coming from his throat.

When at last he was done, he favoured Roy with a blissful smile. "I remember," he whispered. "I remember mom…and this taste…"

Roy took the spatula and set it in the sink, turning away partly to hide the beginnings of glad tears in his eyes. "Give it fifteen minutes," he said lightly, "and you'll remember how it smells, too."

**xXxXxXx**

Roy could tell where Ed had gotten the transmutation circles he'd seen among the notes he and Al had gathered from the desk. Some of them the young man had copied, almost intact, from the library books, making only slight alterations here and there in the design. Others he'd drawn from scratch, synthesizing things he'd learned from several books, trying to create a unique array in which he controlled all the elements and made them serve his purpose.

The guy had been brilliant. Roy had always known that, but he'd never before had the chance to see that intellectual brilliance in such an intimate, methodical way. Following Ed's reasoning, watching the intuitive leaps he took, seeing in detail what he had made of all the information he'd crammed into his head over the years – it was an almost dizzying experience. Breathtaking.

The things Ed had drawn together, creating array after array, designed to draw Al's body from whatever limbo it rested in and release the soul from the armour – without destroying either the soul or the body – and re-create the mysterious bond they had had from the very beginning – combining the alchemy of material things with the alchemy of soul, taking the physical art of chimera creation and transforming it so that it could apply half to a body and half to an immaterial soul, both at the same time without harming either –

It was unparalleled brilliance. Sometimes, far into the night, Roy set down the latest book and simply shook his head, trying to absorb it. Edward had reasoned through all of this, while journeying back and forth across the country, fighting homunculi, looking for the Philosopher's Stone, living through distractions that would have broken anyone else's train of thought a thousand times. But not Ed's.

He'd devised transmutation circles that were so complex and so powerful that they wouldn't even have needed the Philosopher's Stone once he'd gotten them working.

And in fact – they _should_ have worked. Every single one of them would probably have done what Ed wanted, if not for that block he kept running into. It was there in every circle, as he added elements to guard against this backlash, or to channel that power in a harmless direction, or contain a force in a specified area, or create two different required reactions at two separate times. He'd planned and plotted so carefully, thinking of everything – and yet every time, even when he'd placed all the required elements in the circle, they necessitated one final element, forced him into placing one final thing to complete the circle, the thing he couldn't understand, the thing which was symbolized in so many different ways (what _was_ the commonality behind them?) and without which none of the other elements would function at all.

It would have driven Roy crazy, to be backed into the same corner with every new attempt, and never even understand where that corner was, or why he couldn't avoid it.

What it did to Ed, instead, was drive him to research further and further back, into the oldest writings of the earliest alchemists. These were the books he'd resorted to when he and Alphonse had ceased their wanderings and had begun their more settled life a few months ago, in Central. And Scieszka now began to stagger under the load when Roy asked her to bring them to him: the huge old tomes, written in fading ink on rough, thick, yellowed paper, huge sheets of it, bound in heavy, stained covers of hide. Some had been concealed for years in boxes in very old libraries, or had been retrieved from the vaults of old religious buildings as the age of science had superseded the ancient superstitions. These books had often been written and guarded in secret, back when alchemy was only beginning to be codified into a scientific discipline and was still tinged with remnants of its superstitious past, and was looked on with stern disapproval by the religions of the day.

Because of their age, the language itself was harder to read, the ink often faded or the wording strange. But Roy also began to see references to sorcery and magic or even, very occasionally, the aid of the gods. It was much heavier slogging, to get through these, but even with these handicaps, he could still discern certain ideas that continued to appear. Ed's instincts had been unerring: there was a distinct trail here, and Ed had been following it. He seemed to have begun drawing closer and closer to the answer he sought, buried under arcane language and references to "changelings" and magic spells.

And then the trail stopped.

Roy couldn't believe it. All those years, all those books, all that study – and then he'd just _stopped?_

There were no more books on the list. Roy had read every single one of them. Ed had come this far, had come so close – and then had simply returned every book to the library and quit.

That was impossible. That was not the Edward Elric he knew. There had to be more than this.

Roy called Scieszka. "Are you sure these are all the books?" he asked. "Absolutely sure? There should be more than this. I know there had to be more."

"That was all of them, general, I'm sorry. I checked the list over and over while you and Al were gone. These were all the books Ed ever took out of Central Library."

Roy set the receiver back in its place and bowed his head.

So that was it, then. Even though every part of him screamed in protest against the conclusion, Roy couldn't fathom any other explanation: for some reason, Ed had given up. It went against everything he knew about Edward Elric, but there didn't seem to be any other interpretation. Now he himself would also have to abandon the search, and never know why.

Ed. Ed! _Why??_

**xXxXxXx**

"Roy. I have blood!"

Roy's head jerked up as the trowel dropped from suddenly nerveless hands. But the disaster he feared – that had set his heart hammering in his throat – was nothing after all. It was only Al, kneeling a few feet away, pruning a rose bush and accidentally pricking his thumb on a thorn. His small shears had fallen unnoticed beside one of his knees at the edge of the flower bed.

The man wiped the back of his gardening glove across his forehead, where he had broken into a cold sweat despite the warmth of the afternoon sun shining into the yard. The basil he'd been about to plant in the herb bed laid disregarded by the trowel.

"Kid," he muttered, "you might find less dramatic ways of announcing that you've pricked your finger. I thought you'd cut your hand off at least. And of course you've got blood. It's not like that's news to you, I hope."

"What? Oh, sorry," Al replied absently. "I know I've got blood, I just hadn't seen it yet. I mean – not since I was ten. I kind of forgot what it looked like." He held his thumb up and peered at it, examining the dark drop that had beaded at its fleshy centre. He wiggled the thumb very slightly, and watched the bead roll slowly down to jiggle in his palm. Reaching up with his other hand, he squeezed the sides of his thumb, and another bead appeared, to be examined with equal care.

"Doesn't it bother you," Roy had to ask, "that it hurts when you do that?"

"Not too much," Al shrugged. "It's just a little sting. It's a very interesting feeling." He wiggled his thumb again, and the second drop rolled down to join the first and create a larger drop in his palm. "I mean," he added, squeezing for a third time, "if it _really_ hurt, I'd do something about it. It's not like I don't care that it hurts, or that I like how it feels. That's what you're worrying about, isn't it?"

"Yes," Roy agreed sourly. "That's what I'm worrying about. One of the things, anyway."

Al looked up, and held his gaze for a moment. Until he smiled a little sheepishly and said, "Okay, Roy, I'll go clean it and put on a bandage. And no – I didn't do it on purpose. I wouldn't do that."

"You do make me wonder sometimes," the man sighed.

As Al got to his feet, Roy turned back to the basil. He picked up the trowel and stuck its pointed end into the damp soil of the herb bed, turning it to widen the hole he'd already there. But just as he took up the plant again, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and found Al standing above him, smiling.

"I'm sorry," the boy said. "I don't mean to keep scaring you."

"Don't mind me," Roy smiled back. "We're both getting used to your having a body again, that's all."

Al crouched beside him, still contemplating the thumb and the tiny pool of blood in his palm. "I've been thinking," he said slowly. "I might be interested in going into medicine. Becoming a doctor. What do you think?"

"I think you'd be a wonderful doctor," Roy told him dryly, "as long as you didn't cut into your patients just because you were curious what their internal organs felt like."

The youngster burst out laughing, and shook the blood off his hand. "Don't worry," he said, "I think I'll be over that, by the time I get certified. Or at least – I'd restrain myself even if I started to wonder," he added with an impish smile. "But I'm really getting an appreciation of the body, and how it works. I think I'd like to help people take care of their own bodies, and keep them in good shape."

"It's a great idea," Roy agreed, "and if you like, I can find some medical books for you to read, so you can get a better idea of whether you want to pursue this."

"Would you? I'd appreciate that, Roy." Al stood up, gazing around the garden with a happy smile, breathing deeply of the lush growth and the freshly overturned earth. "This is a great place," he said. "I'm so glad I'm here, with you. I never thought I'd be able to think ahead and plan what I would do with my life. It feels good."

He turned and headed toward the house, and Roy returned again to the basil. He set it into the ground and carefully filled in the earth around it, settling it so it would grow safely.

**xXxXxXx**

Scieszka had been buoyant when she'd called, late in the final week of Roy's leave of absence. She'd also been apologetic, but the buoyancy predominated.

"It was a long shot," she'd said. "Hardly anyone even bothers with those books, so I didn't think of them at first, but I suddenly wondered if he might have gone there. And sure enough, when I checked the register, he had checked in, would you believe, three times in the month just before he died. The last time was just over a week before."

The most priceless or fragile books, probably the oldest books in the entire country, not to mention Central Library – kept in a vaulted archive all their own in the lower levels of the building. Handled as little as possible, to be read only on-site, wearing protective gloves. Roy had almost forgotten their existence himself, so he didn't blame Scieszka if she hadn't thought of them immediately.

Ed had checked in three times, to read one book: _The Arts of Sorcerye and the Castinge of Spelles_.

And so Roy had told Al he had to go out for the afternoon, and possibly much later, but that Gracia and Elysia would come at suppertime to spend the evening, bringing a surprise. Then he followed Ed one last time down the trail of his research, to what appeared to be its final destination.

Sitting at the broad wooden table in the small reading room attached to the vault, watching the librarian set the ancient, weathered book on its tilted platform before him, he wanted to rip off the protective gloves and dry his clammy hands on his pants. Instead, he nodded his thanks to the librarian, waited until she left the room and closed the door behind her. He looked around once, at the bare white walls, the two plain wooden chairs on the other side of the table, and the two carefully vented lamps to either side of him. Then at last he took hold of a corner of the mottled leather cover, and opened the book.

It was much older than any of the other books he'd seen, and that much harder to read. The language was more difficult, the spelling (or "spellinge"!) varied widely (sometimes within the same sentence), and the subject matter seemed very far indeed from alchemy as he understood it. The book talked more of witchery and hexes, sorcerers and spells, than of alchemy. At first he wanted to slam the cover shut in relief, decide it was all just a lot of superstitious, unscientific nonsense, and leave it all behind.

But Ed had come to read this book three times.

Once Roy pushed past his own prejudices (he could imagine Edward having to do the same thing), he did discern the vague threads of what would some day be alchemy running through (or at least nearby) many of the prescriptions for love potions and the steps for casting a spell of doom on one's enemy. Some of the "spells," he noted, provided instructions for standing in a circle, either for the protection of the spell-caster or to increase the power of the spell itself. That was the transmutation circle, he realized, just beginning to appear.

And sometimes, when a circle was prescribed, the writer of the book had provided a drawing to suggest its form. Roy turned one page and his breath caught, as he discovered a circle containing three elements with which he himself was familiar, including one of the fire elements. The elemental symbols were rudimentary and not entirely accurate, but they were definitely there.

It was as though he were witnessing the birth of alchemy, right before his eyes. He turned the pages more slowly now, even reverently, finally recognizing what a treasure this book truly was. This was the very beginning of his own tightly controlled and studied scientific discipline before it became rigid and codified – when alchemy was wild, unfettered, often vaguely guessed at, killing its practitioners almost as often as it served them. The alchemists who used and wrote this book – the "sorcerers" – were probably the most courageous of all the alchemists who ever lived, because they ventured into this territory not quite understanding what they were doing, without knowing whether they might succeed or fail, live or die.

And here, he realized, nothing was taboo. Nothing. With another turn of the page, he came to a chapter entitled, "_Upon Matters of the Soule and Bodye_." And his heart began to pound.

It was a short chapter, and Roy skimmed over entries such as the one about the sorcerer sending his soul out to spy on people in the night, and then using the information in the morning. Or a similar, rather silly spell for a woman who, having no mirror, could briefly step out of her body and look back to make sure her hair was arranged beautifully for her lover.

But when he came to the spell, almost at the end of the book, entitled, "_Rescue of the Soule From the Bodye Which Dyeth_," he knew with cold certainty that he had come to the end of the trail. Whatever answer Ed had found – or not found – he had recognized the truth of it here.

It was all there. A dying body, and the rescue of its soul. Its removal from that body, and placement into another body or, if need dictated, even an inanimate object. _(And there, thought Roy, was the armour.)_ The necessity to seal the link with the blood of the sorcerer. _(The small seal in the back of the armour, created with Ed's blood because he had no other material available in his frantic hurry; how fortuitous that was for Alphonse!)_ The ability of the soul to see and hear and speak, partly circumscribed by the material of the object in which it had been placed. _(That child's voice, with its echoing metallic timbre.)_ The permanence of the link thus created, and the consignment of the original, dying body forever to limbo.

But if the link – here described as a "weaving," so intimate was the connection thus created – if the link was faulty, the soul would disintegrate and die, and the sorcerer would go mad or die himself. _(Roy frowned. Why was that?)_ No one knew what happened to the original body in such cases, but they all knew that only the strength of the sorcerer himself could ensure the success of the weaving of the soul and the new object together. If he was weak, the weaving would fail. And most of them were weak.

_(But not Ed. Ed was strong. Ed's weaving had been perfect, even at the age of eleven.)_

Otherwise, the "weaving" was permanent. Nothing could ever unravel it, or release the captive soul. Except one thing.

Roy read the words slowly, a heavy sickness permeating him, body and soul:

'_Thus doth the weaving that hath been woven unravel. As the sorcerer casteth the spelle and it endureth and draweth sustenance by the force of hys owne vitality, so with the lessenyng thereof doth it weaken. As doth the fiber of the sorcerer's spirit fraye away, therebye doth the weaving of the spelle lose its vigour, and only with hys decease doth the fabric of the enchantment unweave.'_

Roy lifted his head, lifted trembling hands to his face.

Ed himself had been the obstacle, the block that reappeared, over and over, in every potential solution he discovered. His very life force had sealed his brother's soul into the armour and kept it trapped there, preventing it from reuniting with its body, year after year after year. Which meant…

_Oh, Edward._

Roy buried his face in his arms on the table, and began to weep.


	5. Unweaving the Spell

Chapter 5 – Unweaving the Spell

One week before.

Ed appeared at his office door, actually knocking for a change rather than just barging in (_should that have been the first clue?_), and making sure to close the door after he'd entered. Starting in without any kind of preamble:

"I'm going to tell you something that will make you gloat. But you might try a little moderation about that, all right?"

Roy had leaned back in his chair, glad for a moment of a break from planning for the raid on the rogue alchemists. Responding with droll humour, "Excuse me, did I hear the word 'moderation' coming from your mouth? Why Fullmetal, I never thought I'd see the day. Are you sure you're not an impostor?"

A long, deep breath, as though exercising infinite patience. A little indulgence in self-control, though the bright eyes were sparking dangerously. "Look, are you going to listen or not? It's going to be hard enough for me to tell you as it is, but this is important. It's about Al."

Finally, with just the merest twinge of worry, Roy had set aside the banter. He didn't often see this sort of concern on Ed's face. "All right, Edward, I'm listening."

"Now that things have settled down the last few months and I've been looking back on the years Al and I spent travelling, I've realized something. Don't you dare get all smug about it either. But…," the words coming now in a frantic rush, as though to get them over with, "…I've been a completely self-centred, irresponsible twit."

Every impulse to "get all smug" or take advantage of these words had been quelled by the astonishing fact that Ed had even uttered them in the first place. Roy folded his hands on his desk, saying only, "Go on."

The young man had drawn closer, stopping on the other side of the desk, chin jutting, a mix of defiance and bravado in his eyes. "I was such an idiot," he rushed on. "I was so single-minded about everything that I never thought…I could've gotten Al killed, all that time. Or I could've been killed, and then where would he be, all alone out there somewhere? He was just a kid – we both were – and I just never thought…but maybe I can fix some of that now… That's why – that's why – " He'd pulled a thin sheaf of papers from behind his back and slapped them on Roy's desk, finishing in another rush, "Will you be Alphonse's legal guardian if something ever happens to me?"

On his unusually pale face, beneath the bravado, a trace of real fear, that he was overstepping the boundaries, that he'd presumed too much – that Roy would refuse.

Roy slowly examined the first couple of pages, then laid them down and smoothed them out, frowning up at Ed's poorly concealed agitation. "Why me?" was all he asked.

"Because – because you tried to look out for us, when we were kids. I was so stupid then – I thought you were just trying to get in our way, but I can see it now. You were trying to help, and keep us as safe as you could. As safe as we'd ever let you. And you – you know us. You know Al. I think you could keep him safe."

"Edward…"

But now that he'd begun, Ed couldn't seem to stop, as though he had to blurt it all now, or he'd never have the nerve again. Two spots of feverish colour spread over his cheeks. "Maybe you won't believe me after all this time, Mustang, but…you're the only one I know I can trust. I know I've never really admitted it before, but I'd trust you with anything. Even my life. And most of all my brother's life. Maybe that sounds really stupid to you, but – "

"No. It doesn't sound stupid at all. Ed…I'm honoured."

"So will you do it? If anything happens to me, will you take care of him? You have to mean it. You have to promise." _(Why, why had he not wondered at the eagerness, the urgency?)_

"I still don't understand why me. Surely the more logical choice would be Pinako Rockbell?"

Ed shook his head. "It might seem that way, but you're an alchemist, and you've seen a lot more of what Al has gone through the last few years. You'd understand him, in a way that Pinako – or even Winry – just wouldn't." Then, yet again, the uncharacteristic fear creeping into his eyes, as he mistook the reason for Roy's question. "But…if you really don't want to, I'll understand. It's a lot to ask, and I probably shouldn't have. They'll be glad to do it if – "

"I want to. I'll do it."

A sharp catch of breath. Hope cutting through the fear. "Really?"

"Really."

Relief flashing into those over-bright eyes, relief so strong that Roy should have, _should_ have wondered why. But Ed had already rushed on, "Thank you. General – Roy – thank you. He's always been the strong one, you know. But if something ever happens, you'd pretty much need to become his big brother. Because that's when he'd need a brother, more than ever." His eyes had widened as though he'd remembered something. "Not that he's going to need anyone but me," he added hurriedly, "for a long time to come," continuing with his more typical narrow smile as his brash confidence seemed to bubble up again _(as he forced it up again?)_, "because I don't plan on going anywhere."

"Why are you asking this now, Edward?" Roy had wondered, just before sending the young man out to bring in Hawkeye and Havoc as the legal witnesses. His mind already returning to the plans for the raid.

"Oh, no actual reason." Finally, Ed sounded like his more usual self, casually dismissive. (_An act – all an act, dammit!_) "I realized I should have asked you a long time ago, just in case. Only a formality, really."

_One week before._

**xXxXxXx**

Two days before.

Roy had dashed to Central Library for one last double check of blueprints of the warehouse in which the rogue alchemists and their cohorts had hidden their lab, and on the way out, stopped to exchange pleasantries with another officer on the front steps. Then turned to go, banging into someone, resulting in the scattering of rather a large number of books on several levels of stairs. And then he'd realized who he'd bumped into.

"Oh, sorry, Ed, let me help you pick these up." He'd bent to help gather and stack the scattered tomes, some, he noted, rather large and heavy. "This is quite a pile of books – are you taking them out or bringing them back?"

Rather than being irritated – as he normally would have been – Ed seemed to be trying to shrug off the mishap. Going to one knee on the broad step, his red coat trailing on the step below him. "Bringing back. It's my third trip, actually." He'd managed a light laugh. "I've had some of them out for years, and they're starting to threaten me with eviction from the dormitory if I don't settle the fines."

He should have, _should_ have caught that, such an obvious lie.

But something had distracted Roy, drawn his attention away – an older book, written a generation ago by an obscure alchemist who'd been forgotten almost as soon as he'd published. "Look at this one – I don't believe you're reading something this outdated. Alchemists have done a lot more recent work than this." He'd teased, "Ed, you're really falling down in your research if you rely on something like this."

Ed's cheerful façade had seemed to slip, his casual laughter fading. He'd lowered his gaze, continuing to stack the fallen books into a pile. Murmuring, "Actually, you'd be surprised, the sort of things you can find in the oldest books, that nobody pays attention to."

"Ed?" Finally (_finally!_) sensing some dampening of spirit. "Is something wrong?"

No answer at first, as the young man set the last book on the truly prodigious pile and placed his gloved hands flat on top for a moment. When he raised his eyes, they were as bright as ever, his smile flashing.

"No," he said lightly, getting his hands under the pile and standing up. His hands stretched down below his hips, and he could barely steady the top book with his chin. "I'm just saying, sometimes older is better. But that just applies to books, so don't let it go to your head, old man!" Impudent laughter trailing behind him as he'd staggered up the last couple of steps and through the library doors.

_Two days before._

**xXxXxXx**

The night before.

Roy had sent all his people home as he saw the sky grow dark through the windows. The big operation, to root out the rogue alchemists and destroy their laboratory, was scheduled for the morning just before dawn. Hopefully everyone would be able to sleep, and be fresh and alert tomorrow. If they could just do this quickly, and didn't encounter too many surprises (Ed's scouting efforts had eliminated at least some of those), maybe they could minimize the damage and, most of all, the danger to personnel. This would be a tricky operation, in the middle of the city, and the quicker they could finish it, the happier Roy would be.

He hadn't expected to see Ed still there, just outside the main entrance of Central headquarters, leaning casually with his back against one of the high pillars in the portico, arms folded, one knee drawn up and the foot pressed against the pillar. He might have been hard to detect, half in shadow with his red coat, but for the bright hair that glowed a soft creamy white as starlight dispersed the shadows.

"Fullmetal, why haven't you gone home? You need to get some sleep."

Ed's face, lifted to the sky, as though drinking in the beauty of the glittering stars against the eternal, arching darkness. (_That calm profile…the falling hair across his eyes…the slight upturn of the lips…seared into memory forever…_) He hadn't really answered, at least not as Roy had understood it at that moment. "It's such a beautiful night," he'd murmured. "There's still time." Then he added, "I've been thinking about something."

Roy began to absorb some of his mood, that uncharacteristic calm penetrating his own worries about tomorrow and beginning to settle them down. "And what is that?" he'd asked, moving to stand beside the young man, lifting his own face toward the stars.

"I used to think you really overdid it, with all the guilt about the things you did in Ishbal."

Roy had peered at him in astonishment, but Ed remained as he was, gazing upward, continuing softly, "I think I finally get it, though. In fact, I think you're probably the most courageous person I know, to come through all that and be so sane, and keep going, and try to do something about what you'd done."

"Thank you. I guess. But why – " _(Why, indeed? Oh, Ed…)_

"I just thought I should tell you. That was another thing I never bothered figuring out, while I was so busy concentrating on myself and Al all those years." He'd straightened up, arms and foot dropping, and turned to face his companion. Smiling. _(Smiling!)_ "Sometimes even late bloomers like me finally grow up. Good thing, eh?"

Roy had smiled back. "Better late than never, I guess, Edward."

"That's right." A glance back up at the sky, for a different reason this time. "You're right, it's late, and I'd better get back to Al. We'll be there, first thing in the morning. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Fullmetal."

Ed had turned to go, but then stopped, smiling again over his shoulder, his thick braid trailing across it, and the fall of hair half-obscuring his eyes. "Don't worry, Roy," he said softly. "You'll do fine." And hopped down the wide steps, heading for the dormitory.

_The night before._

**xXxXxXx**

The final hour.

The raid had gone almost entirely according to plan, and Roy had been right – Ed's prior scouting had made all the difference. Roy's people knew the weaknesses of the warehouse (and the identities of most of the alchemists), and just as the sun rose above the surrounding streets, they'd broken in with little difficulty. All the people holed up inside had been caught by surprise, and most had been trapped and held quickly.

Even when the rogue alchemists had fought back, Roy's alchemists launched counterattacks devised in advance to nullify their specific talents. Few could escape the stone barriers Armstrong erected, but Roy, Ed, Alphonse, and several others had ways to defeat those who did. Edward, with his talent for improvising on the spot and not needing to draw individual arrays, seemed to be everywhere. With Al, as always, never far away.

A few non-alchemists burst unexpectedly through a shipping door, and ran through the streets trying to escape. Lieutenant Havoc had led a group in pursuit, knowing that Lieutenant Breda's group was already on an intercept course.

In a nearby intersection, Roy and Ed had found a last, defiant group of three alchemists who had hidden while their accomplices were neutralized. Roy recognized the ringleader, a State Alchemist who had recently failed his recertification, who had a special skill with poisonous gases.

A quick exchange of glances with Ed – they'd talked about this one, and what they would do with him. They knew he'd fight to the death, having nothing to lose. They had few alternatives, with so many innocent citizens in the area, even knowing the other two alchemists would be collateral damage. Those two had made their choice.

A swift clap of the hands, before pressing them to the ground. A barricade of steel, springing into place behind the three alchemists, just as the dangerous one summoned his poisonous cloud. Ed clapped again as Roy raised his hand. The _snap!_ of his fingers was followed almost instantly by another barricade of steel, enclosing the three alchemists and the chemical reaction Roy had induced in the gas cloud.

The explosion shook the ground, but the barricade held, directing most of the force upward. No one could have survived a blast like that. Roy and Ed were virtually finished the job now, having eliminated the most dangerous threat.

Or so he had thought.

Turning _(so slowly turning, in slow motion, over and over in the memory, too slow, too slow)_ to see Ed behind him, staring down a cross street, seemingly frozen in surprise as one last rebel raised a gun and pulled a trigger. _(But you weren't frozen, Ed…were you?)_ Snapping the fingers _(too late, too late)_ to kill the rebel, but Ed –

Ed – flying backwards, lifted from his feet, tossed back like a doll to land with a sickening thud, limbs splayed, at Roy's very feet.

Gathered, gasping, into Roy's arms as the man frantically tugged at his jacket, trying to get at the wound _(…the ghastly spreading bloodstain hardly visible in the fabric of the black jacket…),_ all the while yelling, "Somebody! _Somebody!_ Get the medics over here!" Because of course they'd brought medical backup, of _course_ they had, so it would be all right –

But it was not all right. It was very, very bad. Blood pumping steadily from the gaping wound in Ed's chest, his body so limp, unmoving, already so…lifeless. Their eyes meeting. And both of them knew.

"Get – Al!" the young man gasped. "Have to – see Alphonse!"

But there was no need to hunt for his brother. _"Edward!"_ Half gasp, half scream as Al came running, shaking the ground again as his huge metal form thundered over, collapsing to its knees beside the wounded young man.

"Al…Al…" Ed managed a smile, partly relief, but mostly just…love. As it always had been. Just love.

"You'll be okay, big brother, hang on!" Al had cried.

"_Where the hell are those medics?"_ Roy had shouted, though there had barely been time for their response. But time was running out – already – running out –

"Hold on, Ed! Help is coming!" Alphonse, frantic, helpless to do anything but try to keep his brother awake and alive until someone could come. "Hang on just a little longer!"

Then a thought – maybe _he_ could do something, hold back the end, just long enough – just long enough –

Roy raised his hand, ready to snap, to cauterize the wound and hold back the terrible, deadly pumping stream of lifeblood –

-- then his wrist and hand, caught in an unbreakable automail grip as Ed clutched him in a sudden spasm of pain – he couldn't move – couldn't break free –

"Ed, let go! You have to let go!" He could do it, he could do this, _if only Ed would let go_.

But Ed's eyes – fixed on his face – not bleared with unreasoning pain, fully aware of what he did. Refusing adamantly, with everything he had, with all the strength he had left, with all his damned Elric stubbornness. Roy recognized it now. _(Pinako, you were wrong, wrong.)_ Ed refused to let go.

And then –

Roy would never forget Alphonse's screams as long as he lived, nor the raging whirlwind of alchemic reaction that swirled around the three of them. He couldn't have concentrated enough to cauterize the wound now if he tried, even though he was dimly aware that Ed had released his iron grip.

His eyes proved that nothing moved, yet he felt as though the earth heaved beneath them, as though a chasm had opened up in the fabric of the world. He watched in awe and horror as the suit of armour began to disintegrate – began to unravel as though someone had cut the one crucial string that maintained its form and shape. It frayed away, coming apart at every seam, the metal softening, turning to dust, streaming away in tatters, falling in on itself, ribbons of metal powdering and cascading down like a rain of grey sand. And the voice of Alphonse Elric…screaming.

Roy had felt as though every atom in his own body was trying to fly apart in concert with the armour, in response to some utterly irresistible, demanding power. If that disintegrative force had been directed at him, he would instantly have blown apart in a shower of blood.

Yet his only conscious thought? He was losing both of them at once. He couldn't bear it – both of them, dying before his eyes, and he could do nothing, nothing to save them.

But then the miracle. The swirling cloud of random matter began to coalesce, as the screaming suddenly stopped. With a vertiginous whoosh Roy felt the tear in the world slam shut, and with a powerful rush of wind, the matter solidified swiftly into the form of a slender, brown-haired boy, naked, curled into himself, trembling hands over his head. The perfect, beautiful, truly human body of a teenaged boy, shivering in terrified, violent reaction to the trauma he had just endured.

"Good." It was the merest whisper, but it drew Roy's eyes back to Ed's face. The young man gazed at his brother, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, a tender, happy smile unlike any Roy had ever seen before, shining on his face. "Good," Ed whispered again. "Good. Oh, Alphonse…" The fingers of his automail hand lifted and moved, trying with a final wisp of strength to reach out and touch his brother one last time. Then the hand dropped to the ground beside Roy's knee, and Ed's head lolled over his arm, golden eyes dimmed, seeing nothing.

"B-big bro-brother?" The voice was the same, without the metallic echo, yet faint and rasping, with no strength to it now. The vocal chords had been unused for a very long time. The boy before him had stirred and struggled to his hands and knees, wobbling like a newborn calf. "E-Ed?" he faltered, lifting his head, blinking, gradually remembering how to focus his eyes. Those wide, astonishing grey eyes so like and unlike his brother's.

Focusing on the limp, bloody form still clutched in Roy's arms.

And then the screams had begun again, strained squawks of hysteria as Al pitched forward onto his face, trying to crawl to his brother. He struggled up, but fell again, landing half on top of Ed, face and chest and one hand coming up covered in blood. Al clutched at the front of his brother's jacket, shaking him, screaming and screaming for him to wake up. Finally, mercifully, the medics arrived, flinging a coat around the trembling, wildly sobbing boy, trying to draw him away. And Roy had had no choice – Alphonse needed him, he had _promised_ – he laid Ed's body on the ground and crept to the boy's side, drawing him close.

"I'm here – I've got you, Alphonse – you're safe, I'll take care of you, I'll never let you go – "

They would have to get him to a hospital immediately, to sedate him and try to help him begin the long process of healing, adjusting to his body, dealing with his grief. (So much, so _much_ to face at once!) But as he picked up the boy to carry him to the ambulance, Roy took one final look back at Ed, and saw Hawkeye, newly arrived, now kneeling beside the body, weeping as he was weeping.

"I'll take care of him, Roy," she promised gently, laying a soft hand on Ed's forehead and smoothing back his hair before closing his eyes. "Alphonse needs you."

So he had turned away, holding his young ward tightly against his chest, following the medics, leaving Edward behind.

_The final terrible, glorious hour._

**xXxXxXx**

Roy called for a car, planning at first to be driven straight home. Then, realizing that he'd need some time to collect himself, he revised the plan and decided instead to have the driver just take him randomly around the city for a while.

But shortly after the vehicle pulled away from the building and began to circulate through the streets, he apologized to the driver for wasting his time, asked to be let out, and started walking instead. Because if he hadn't done so, the result would have been inevitable: a wave of gossip tomorrow, flaring through the barracks and among Central military personnel, spreading the news that General Mustang had spent several hours crying in the back of a staff car.

And nobody must ever have cause to wonder just what he had learned in the library today, that had been so devastating.

Therefore he wandered the back streets of Central, avoiding places where he might be recognized, going nowhere in particular…just walking blindly through neighbourhood after anonymous neighbourhood. He passed strangers leaving their homes on errands, heard mothers calling for their children from their front porches, watched as the occasional car drove down a tree-lined street. As the late afternoon sun began to sink in the western sky, lengthening the shadows of the houses around him until dusk finally settled its grey blanket over the city streets, he trudged with bowed head, hugging his arms across his chest, trying without success to contain the terrible pain.

So alone, Ed had been. Among all the unbearable truths, that one was the hardest of all to face. To have discovered what he'd truly done to his brother – and then make all the arrangements he needed so he could undo it, while presenting his usual brash, confident face to the world to make sure no one would guess (especially not Alphonse) – Roy didn't know how he'd had the strength.

'_I used to think you really overdid it, with all the guilt about the things you did in Ishbal…I think I finally get it, though.'_

Roy stepped into a shadowed laneway running between two rows of houses, leaned back against a high wooden fence, and pressed the heels of his hands over his streaming eyes. _I would never have wanted you to understand that kind of guilt, Edward._ But it was already too late to prevent it, the very night he had met the brothers for the first time. When Ed was eleven and Al was only ten. It was already too late.

And Roy could never have helped. That was another hard truth. There was no possible help with this, for Ed – no help, no comfort – anywhere in the world, from anyone. He had done what he had done, never mind how young he'd been. There was only one way to undo it. And he couldn't weep, couldn't tell anyone, couldn't ask for help or they'd have tried to stop him. _(I would have, even though I knew it was the only answer.)_ And above all, he couldn't allow that.

So alone…

Had he at least allowed the tears to come at the beginning, sitting by himself in that little white reading room adjacent to the vault, before donning his mask of normalcy and stepping back into the world with his awful knowledge? Roy hoped so. But it was more likely, he thought with a wry, painful smile, that Ed had begun plotting immediately how he would go about fixing the problem. He was an Elric, after all.

Within two days of his discovery, he had appeared in the office with papers all ready to sign, appointing Roy as Al's legal guardian. And five days after that, he'd returned all his library books. Swiftly tying up all his loose ends, getting everything done.

He'd even made sure that the warehouse raid had been successful first, another "loose end" to tie up. Ed had been committed to the operation for weeks, had been deeply involved in the planning, and would never have allowed his personal quest to interfere with its final success. He saw it through first, devoted all his efforts to it, and made sure it was done.

And then, immediately after he and Roy had defeated the ringleader of the rogue alchemists, when the opportunity presented itself...

_You weren't frozen in surprise, Ed…were you?_

Eventually, as evening drew in, Roy found his steps wandering to the district where Lab Five had once stood, before it had been razed to the ground. He stared across what was now a vast empty field, the streetlights along one edge revealing the desultory clumps of grass gamely trying to fill in the space. He remembered that among the many experiments conducted here, there had been other cases of souls sealed into armour, the fusions created by alchemists who had been more powerful than Roy had previously realized. _(But they hadn't been eleven years old and ad libbing while bleeding from two missing limbs and facing a life-and-death situation. None of them could ever rival Ed. No one ever would.)_

The alchemists who had created those fused beings – placing other souls in armour, to defend Lab Five from intruders – had all been killed when the lab was destroyed, as far as Roy remembered. But their soul creations had not been restored to their physical bodies, but instead died along with them. He knew that the bodies of those prisoners had already perished, so when their creators died and the seal was broken, the souls had no bodies to return to.

But Al's body had never died, and that was the difference. Ed would have understood that as well as he did.

Therefore the dauntless young man had wasted no time, making his arrangements and getting the job done. It wasn't even a matter of equivalent exchange (Ed would have appreciated the irony: his life was not required in equal trade, and yet…). Rather, it was simply a matter of breaking the life-seal, the vital force that kept Al's soul trapped in its prison and prevented it from reuniting with its natural physical counterpart. And so, nine days after he had learned the truth, Ed simply did what was necessary.

And had smiled, without regret. Had been truly, finally happy as he'd watched his brother dramatically, miraculously restored. He had been granted that much grace.

'_Good. Good. Oh, Alphonse…'_

Roy wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, and finally began to make his way home. There had only been one motivation, ever, for anything Ed did in the last seven years. And Roy understood it now.

He crept quietly into the house, opening and closing the front door as silently as he could. Hearing the murmuring voices in the living room, he paused in the front hall, listening.

"I read a book about cats the other day – Roy brought it home for me. Did you know there are 32 muscles in a cat's ear? Humans only have six." Alphonse, mumbling a little, sounding drowsy.

"Why does a kitty need so many muscles in its ear?" Six-year old Elysia, hanging on his every word, as usual.

Roy inched toward the entryway and peeked around the corner, making sure to stay back in the shadows. He saw Alphonse half-reclining, knees up, brown hair glowing in the firelight as he leaned his head against some cushions propped at the end of the couch. Elysia sat at his feet, cross-legged, braids dangling down her back. And in her lap slept a tiny marmalade kitten, its chin propped on one of her ankles, while its little calico sibling stood on Al's chest, kneading and kneading with half-closed eyes as he petted its head gently with his forefinger, smiling contentedly.

The surprises Roy had arranged for Gracia and Elysia to bring when they came for dinner this evening. Alphonse's promised kittens, at last.

Gracia herself, curled up with a book in the chair where Roy usually did his reading, watched the girl and her current idol, smiling. Her book, in which she held her place with a finger between the pages, seemed to be forgotten for the moment as the woman surveyed the happily domestic human-feline scene, the fire crackling companionably in the fireplace between chair and couch.

The boy replied, "The muscles help the cat turn its ear back and forth so it can hear even the tiniest sounds." His lips turned up faintly. "Like Roy sneaking into the house when he doesn't want anyone to know." The grey eyes lifted and fixed directly on the older man, still concealed (as he'd thought, anyway) in the shadows.

His eyes had been dry for a while now. He hoped the redness had faded; maybe the soft light of the fire would soften whatever signs of grief still remained. Because Alphonse could never, ever know what he had discovered today. It would completely destroy him if he found out. And Ed had died so that the boy could finally be freed from the prison of the brothers' past, and live to plan a happy future.

Whatever it cost, Roy thought, he would do, to fulfill that hope. Not just for Edward who had paid such a high price, but for Alphonse, whom he loved as though the boy were his own little brother.

He stepped into the living room as Al straightened up on the couch, with one hand patting the space he'd opened up, and with the other cradling the clinging kitten against his chest. Roy sat down between the two young people, putting an arm around each of them and smiling across the room at Gracia. Time to begin the future Ed had given them.

"Sorry I'm so late," he said. "Tell me everything I've missed. What are you going to name the kittens, Al?"

'Whatever it takes,' he thought again. 'I hope I'm up to this.'

'_Don't worry, Roy. You'll do fine.'_

FIN

**oOoOoOo**

_You may not believe this, but it wasn't till I was halfway through this chapter that the thought occurred to me, 'Hey! This story is similar to "Apotheosis"!' Duh._

_I hope that's not too troublesome. Maybe it's that I've always thought Roy and Ed were, at heart, rather alike. So it stands to reason that they'd both be the sort of person who would make this kind of sacrifice if it was called for._

_But I also really liked having the chance to explore what life would be like for Alphonse, once he got his body back, especially if his brother wasn't there. And I REALLY enjoyed going through Ed's books, with Roy, and finding out what information would have taken Ed from the alchemy knowledge he started with, to the final solution he discovered. Most of the time, I didn't know any of that stuff till Roy did. So that was challenging, and fun, to write and discover._

_Anyway, I hope that while this story shares a basic idea with "Apotheosis," that it was still different enough that people didn't go, "Oh, THAT again."_

- Miskcat/Kashicat


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